Something RomeoandJulietish
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: It's like Romeo and Juliet, only funnier, less depressing, more perverted, and with a whole lot more Bacon. Eggy. Gazzy/OC. Fax in later chapters. Read at your own risk.
1. Ella Swears, World is Shocked

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 1: Ella Swears, World is Shocked**

**Greetings and salutations, earthlings, non-earthlings, and assorted others!**

**I now present to you ... my first-ever serious, legitimate attempt at a multi-chapter story. With a plot and everything. (Up until now, I've only written one-shots, two-shots, three-shots, and two six-chapter stories.)**

**Here's some info you might like before you start reading...**

**TITLE: Something Romeo-and-Juliet-ish**

**RATING: T**

**PAIRINGS: Eggy, Gazzy/OC, Fax (in much later chapters)**

**GENRE: Humor & Romance**

**DESCRIPTION: It's like Romeo and Juliet, only funnier, less depressing, more perverted, and with a whole lot more Bacon. Read at your own risk.**

**BETA: The ever-awesome Kina Kalamari**

**UPDATES: Every Monday**

**AU-RELATED EXPLANATION: This fanfic takes place one year after the end of Nevermore (Book 8) assuming everyone in the Flock is still alive and Fang and his gang are still separate from the Flock. Also (this is the AU part) in this fanfic, Max never met Dr. Martinez and Ella.**

**POV: The POVs in this fanfic alternate; the odd-numbered chapters will be narrated by Liz, Ella's best friend, and the even-numbered chapters will be narrated by Gazzy.**

**Alright, that's everything; let's do this thing!**

**Gazzy: ... Aren't you forgetting something?**

**Me: AH! Where did you come from?**

**Gazzy: Your basment.**

**Me: Now that's just freaky.**

**Gazzy: No ... you kidnapped me, remember?**

**Me: Did I?**

**Gazzy: *nods sadly***

**Me: Oh. Right. Now I remember. *evil grin* That was _fun_ ...**

**Gazzy: ... Well, you still need to do a Disclaimer.**

**Me: No, I don't! Jimmy P stopped writing MR in a way that us fangirls can actually appreciate, therefore, as an apology, he disowned it and it belongs to us!**

**Gazzy: Where did you hear that?**

**Me: Wikipedia.**

**Gazzy: ...**

**Me: What?**

**Gazzy: You can't believe everything the Wikipedia tells you, you know...**

**Me: But I _love_ Wikipedia! Without it, I'd probably be dead by now!**

**Gazzy: Fine, then, I'll do the disclaimer. Owl doesn't own Maximum Ride (or any of the characters in it); James Patterson does. She doesn't own Romeo and Juliet; Shakespeare does. She doesn't own Wikipedia; whoever created Wikipedia does. She doesn't own herself; her friend Hannah does.**

**Me: HEY! How did you know about that?**

**Gazzy: Do you really want to know?**

**Me: Point...**

**Gazzy: And she doesn't own the computer she's using to post this; her dad does.**

**Me: Wow. What _do_ I own?**

**Gazzy: Uh ... Liz, I guess?**

**Me: Pathetic.**

**Gazzy: Um ... well ... enjoy the story, everyone!**

* * *

><p>"I can't believe this."<p>

Of all the voices emanating from the crowd of kids gathered around the cast list for the spring play, my best friend Ella's is the one I hear from where I stand at the other end of the hallway, patiently waiting for the crowd to disperse.

"No, that's not strong enough," she continues, her voice morphing into a ferocious wolf-like snarl. "I CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE THIS FUCKING SHIT."

Okay, something must be wrong. Horribly wrong. Ella _never_ swears. Ever. (Well, unless you count the times when we're tunelessly singing along to nearly-always-explicit Green Day songs ...)

_Ella is mad,_ I tell myself. _And when Ella is mad, things get crazy faster than Mr. Ranca when he's confronted with two kids making out in the staff bathroom. This is a job for ... the Lizanator!_

(So what if I call myself the Lizanator to get myself to be brave? Don't tell me _you_ never give yourself pep talks with the weirdest, awesomest superhero name you can think up! ... You don't? ... Okay, well ... never mind, then ...)

Taking a deep breath, I plunge into the crowd and weave through it toward the door of the chorus room, where the cast list is posted. I'm so tiny and nimble that I would probably go unnoticed, were it not for my constant mumbling of, "I'm sorry ... sorry ... sorry ... excuse me ... sorry ... 'scuse me ... so sorry ..."

All the while, I'm wondering what went wrong. Did she not get the main part? But she _had_ to have gotten the main part! Ella is the best actor I know; so good that whenever we watch movies, she acts out all of the female roles (and sometimes some of the male ones) in such an original, creative way that it completely ridicules the performances of the actual actors. The only reason she hasn't acted the main role in every single school play since sixth grade is the fact that, before this year, they were all musicals. No offense to Ella or anything, but listening to her sing is like listening to a cat that's being slowly char-broiled over an open fire. So if she doesn't get the lead role this year, all hell will break loose. Well, not literally, with demons and black magic and all that loveliness … but you get what I mean.

Suddenly, I find myself face-to-text with a set of bold, black, all-capital, Times New Roman, size seventy-two letters: "CAST LIST FOR ROMEO AND JULIET."

_Well, that's good,_ I think in relief. _At least the play is still what they said it would be._ (Unlike last year - the drama teachers told everyone that they'd be performing Alice In Wonderland, but it turned out to be a modernized rendition of Cinderella. The captain of the basketball team ended up as the prince, with his ex-girlfriend as Cinderella and his current girlfriend as the evil stepmother ... Needless to say, that play didn't have a particularly spectacular opening night.)

Gathering a bit of rarely-used courage, I angle my head down past the title to look for the names of the main cast members.

"Juliet," I read, "Ella Martinez."

I turn to Ella, feeling more confused than a freshman who accidentally walks into a senior calculus class. "But ... you got the main part! What's wrong?"

My best friend could probably heat the entire school with all of the electricity her anger is generating. I can almost hear it crackling in her bright, tomato-red face, the dark brown strands of hair escaping her long ponytail, the raging fire in her chocolaty eyes, the grim line of her mouth, the arms crossed over her chest, and the sweat on her tight black Coldplay t-shirt.

"Look down," she growls at me.

Not about to cross her when she's this ferocious, I glance back at the list.

Below Ella's name lurk the three words that threaten to destroy my friend's entire acting career: "Romeo, Iggy Griffiths."

"Oh," I whisper.

You see, Iggy Griffiths is the punk slacker to end all punk slackers. A perverted, annoying, and never satisfied senior, he wears nothing but baggy jeans, black hoodies, and the most violent t-shirts on the face of the Earth. He's horrible to everyone he's forced to interact with. People say the day he turns in his homework or shows up at school on time is the day that division by zero becomes possible. Headphones frequent his ears, and huge dark sunglasses frequent his piercing blue eyes. Teachers hate him for his wise-ass comments, kids hate him for his perverted jokes and the fact that he hits on _everyone_. The strangest thing about him, though, is that he's blind. He's never said how it happened or how he can still act like he can see ... Then again, he's never said much of anything about where he came from or what he does when he's not in school. He hasn't made a single friend since he entered school here at the beginning of the year.

In short, he's the world's worst Romeo.

Poor Ella.

I realize about now that the girl in question has been ranting for the past minute or so. "How did he get the part? I bet he bribed the teachers. But why did he want it? Probably so he could creep around and catch innocent girls in the middle of trying on costumes. Ugh. How am I going to _survive_?" ... et cetera.

"Ella," I mutter, pulling on her arm, "we have to get out of here. Everyone's staring at us."

"So?" she retorts.

Sighing, I drag her through the mass of Mesa High students clamoring to see the list - "sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry" - and into the music department's girls' bathroom. For a minute, I let her rant while I attempt to fix my hair in the mirror on the opposite white-washed wall. I don't accomplish anything, as usual; unlike Ella's straight, dark locks, my unruly brown curls are determinedly refuse to stay where I want them to.

Finally, she finishes. "I just can't believe I'll have to spend ..."

"Seventy hours," I insert.

"... with him! Wait, how did you know that?"

"Ten weeks of practice, five days a week for one hour each day. That's fifty hours. Then, four shows, five hours each including set-up and clean-up. That's twenty hours. Total of fifty hours," I explain, re-inserting a silver hair clip.

Ella giggles, a nice change from her angry ranting. "Stop being such a math geek."

I shrug. "It's in my blood." Which is true – my dad, my grandma, and my great-grandfathers on both sides of my family were math teachers. I'm following in their footsteps by taking pre-calculus my sophomore year (most kids take it in their junior or senior years).

"Really, though," she asks, "what will I do? I can act the part of Juliet in my sleep, but can I do it with Iggy Griffiths playing Romeo?"

"Did you really think it would be that easy?" I reply. "What did you expect, Robbie Ammel playing Romeo?" Robbie, Ella's boyfriend and the sophomore class's president, wouldn't have time to join a play even if he wanted to, between his many student council meetings and soccer tournaments.

"No, but …"

"You can do it," I assure her.

"But how?"

I roll my gray-blue eyes up to examine the tiled ceiling and want to keep them like that … there's a very interesting llama-shaped stain up there …

Anyway, Ella has no idea what she's capable of. I really wish I possessed her confidence and courage sometimes.

I look back at my friend. "You'll think of something," I tell her. "You're Ella Martinez. Nothing will stand in your way, least of all some perverted senior who bribed his way into the main part in the school play."

She grins. "Thanks."

* * *

><p>"Liz!"<p>

I look up from locking my small black clarinet case in my tannish-grayish wire band locker to find Ella next to me, panting like a dog that just played a twenty-four-hour non-stop game of fetch. She's wearing blue jeans, sneakers, a magenta beret over her long, silky hair, and a gray sweater, along with her bright green book bag.

"Hey," I greet her. "How's life?"

"Horrible. Dreadful. Unbearable. I may kill myself."

I can tell she's joking, but life is obviously not good if she didn't respond with our typical, "Good, except for when it's not."

Pushing the lock shut, I sigh and stand up. My backpack, full of books, binders, and notebooks, feels like a ton of rocks.

"So, how was play practice?" I inquire. Yesterday, the Monday after the results were posted, marked the very first rehearsal of Mesa High School's production of Romeo and Juliet. Today, Tuesday, will be the second rehearsal.

My friend slumps against the locker of one of the trombonists and adopts an expression of dramatic annoyance (eyes rolled to the ceiling, scowl, nose turned up, the works). "Romeo is a son of a bitch."

"Really?" I ask mildly, turning and strolling towards the door of the band room. "I thought he was supposed to be an okay guy. Reckless and a little stupid, maybe, but certainly not the son of a bitch."

(I love saying words like "certainly" and "indeed." Especially when I do it in a fake British accent; it just makes me sound a hundred times smarter than I actually am.)

"No, Romeo the character isn't that bad," Ella admits, sprinting a bit to catch up with me. "It's the guy playing Romeo who's a problem."

"You mean Iggy," I clarify.

"No, I mean Edward Cullen," she says sarcastically. "What other annoying, perverted, utterly _stupid_ Romeo is there?"

I don't dignify that with a response, and instead ask, "Did you exercise **THE PLAN**?"

**THE PLAN** (yes, all-capitals and bold are necessary) is that Ella will be as mean as she possibly can to Iggy whenever the teachers aren't looking, thus motivating him to drop out of the play and forcing the drama teachers to choose a new Romeo. It's sheer genius, if I do say so myself. (No, I'm not only saying that because I created **THE PLAN**. Well, okay, maybe.)

"I thought it was working," Ella begins. "I thought it was, but then that … that … corrupted lump of dog poop with a bloodthirsty alpaca for a mother and man-killing green Martian for a father had to ruin everything!"

Hmm … corrupted lump of dog poop with a bloodthirsty alpaca for a mother and man-killing green Martian for a father … creative, although not one of her finest. (After hearing her finest, which she reserves for extremely special occasions, I can never look at watermelons the same way again.)

"He had to go and figure out **THE PLAN**, and then of course he went and said all his lines in this stupid fake Italian accent just to get on my nerves, when he knew his lines at all, which he hardly ever did, and …"

We've reached the hallway now. It's not that crowded at the moment; only a few of the kids with early buses or early-bird parents are here. Most of them roam around in small packs, talking and giggling, while some cram for tests, others hurriedly finish homework, and still others slump against their lockers, trying to sleep. A couple is making out in one of the corners, their bodies so intertwined that I can't tell where he ends and she begins. It's a bit disgusting, really. Sure, I wish my boyfriend would make out with me like that, but … not at school.

(Yes, I have a boyfriend: Adam Junto, a cute, glasses-wearing, chess-playing computer geek and fellow pre-calculus-taking sophomore. Because of the advanced math thing, we've been in the same class since seventh grade and, always the two youngest in our class, ended up seated next to each other. It took us until about a month ago to confess that we liked each other, though … I think it's a little pathetic, even if Ella calls it "cute.")

Speaking of Ella, she's still ranting about Iggy as we head up a set of faded brown stairs to Ella's locker. I tune her out, internally studying for a history test I have seventh period.

"… and he made farting noises whenever I sat down! Can you believe that? So childish! I wonder how much he had to bribe the drama teachers to get himself the main part … Liz, are you even listening to me?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'll take that as a no," she says, laughing a little. "So, Lizzy, are you gonna join up or what?"

"Join what?" I question.

"Join the play, of course! I need moral support."

"No, you don't. Besides, I'm way too busy to join anything."

"You could just join tech crew," she protests. "It only meets on Wednesdays, and you'd get to work with computers. You _love_ computers."

"That's beside the point," I retort. "I've already got to do homework, practice the piano, practice the clarinet, and do math with my dad … Plus, Adam sometimes has chess meets on Wednesday evenings …"

"And Adam is more worthy of your moral support that me? Come on, Lizzy. Pleeeeeeeease?" she pleads.

I look over at her … and there is my mistake. Her infamous Bambi eyes, the uber-cute expression that can convince teachers to raise her grade and cause pretty much every boy in the school to turn to mush, are turned on full blast.

"Fine, I'll join tech crew."

"Yay! You da bestest BFFL evaaa!"

"That has to be the most grammatically incorrect sentence I've heard in my entire life."

* * *

><p><strong>Me: Whether you loved it or hated it -<strong>

**Gazzy: Because, I mean, how could you _possibly_ love it? I'm not even in this chapter!**

**Me: ... Is there any way I could answer that without further inflating your already inflated ego?**

**Gazzy: Nope!**

**Me: *sigh***

**Gazzy: Hey, there's nothing wrong with an inflated ego. Your dad said that every man's ego must be at least twice the size of his body.**

**Me: True, but still. ... HOLY SWEET WHALE CARCASS!**

**Gazzy: WHERE?**

**Me: ...**

**Gazzy: What?**

**Me: I forgot to explain the contest-thingy!**

**Gazzy: There's a contest-thingy?**

**Me: Yeah! Okay, so, in every chapter, I'm going to include a Reference To Something Awesome. The first person to find that reference and review telling me where that reference is and what it refers to (copy-paste the part of the story into your review) gets a PRIZE!**

**Gazzy: Is it Bacon?**

**Me: Nah, just a sneak peek into the next chapter.**

**Gazzy: Shizzlesticks.**

**Me: Hey, that's my swear word!**

**Gazzy: You act as if I care.**

**Me: Well, you should care.**

**Gazzy: But I don't.**

**Me: _Anywhoozles_, this chapter's Something Awesome to Which There Is a Reference is ... *cues ominous music* BEN FRANKLIN!**

**Gazzy: Good luck.**

**Me: They'll need it.**

**Gazzy: So, um, before the A/N gets longer than the actual chapter...**

**Me: I get it, I get it. But first, you have to help me shout this as loud as possible...**

**Me & Gazzy: REVIEWS ARE LOVED!**


	2. Overload of Ohs

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 2: Overload of Ohs**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK:**

**"The water ... is wet." - My friend Katie (after testing the water in our town's pool)**

**"Today, you will learn each other's names. How? By throwing a foam fish at each other." - my new camp counselor**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME **OCCURRED**: In the last name of Liz's boyfriend. Her boyfriend is Adam Junto, and the Junto was a club Ben Franklin formed in Philadelphia in 1727 to debate morals, philosophy, and politics and exchange business knowledge. (Yeah, that one was pretty hard ... though if you'd been non-lazy enough to Google Ben Franklin and read through an article about him, you probably would've gotten it.)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Eddsworld (If you don't know what that is, Google it.)**

**A/N: Yay, chapter two is up! And right on time, too! I don't have anything to say -**

**Gazzy: For once.**

**Me: I know, it's amazing.**

**Gazzy: Just like Prussia's character CD.**

**Me: Stop stealing my iPod and listening to Mein Gott and **My Song That Is Written By Me, For Me.** Please.**

**Gazzy: But ... but ... they're, like, my favorite songs ever!**

**Me: It's Prussia singing about how awesome he is, heavy metal style.**

**Gazzy: ... So?**

**Me: Prussia and his narcissus-ness aside, enjoy the chapter, everyone!**

* * *

><p>Even though I'm sitting at the kitchen table with a completely unhindered view of the door, I hear, rather than see, Iggy come in.<p>

There's a _THUD_ as he walks into the door, a _CREAK_ as he opens it, a _SLAM_ as he shuts it, a _CRASH _as his black L.L. Bean backpack full of books he never uses drops to the floor, two _SMASH_es as his two Adidas sneakers fly across the room and into a lamp, and, finally a _THUMP_ as Iggy himself falls face-first onto one of the couches in the living room (a.k.a. his bed).

Savoring the last few sour cream and onion potato chips in the bag I was devouring, I hop off the reddish-brown half-broken piano bench I use as a chair and head into the living room. The kitchen of the apartment the Flock shares is always neat and tidy, a place for everything and everything in its place, because Iggy can't stand to have it otherwise. He has to know where every single little thing is so that he can cook for us. The living room, on the other hand, the two of us can't really be bothered to keep clean. Not only are the walls covered with everything from completely failed math tests to chewing gum wrappers to pictures printed out from the internet, you can barely see our two beds / puke-green couches underneath the masses of clothes, notes, books, CDs, food, and general junk that we've acquired after our few months of living in Mesa. After the Doomsday Group was destroyed, Max decided that we had to permanently live somewhere for a while so that we could go to normal school and actually learn something, as well as have a base to make sure nobody else tries to destroy the world. We threw darts at a map of the U.S. and landed in Mesa, Arizona. So here we are: learning (not), making money (yay), figuring out how the heck to not let the world get destroyed (not so yay), and avoiding the police who come around every few weeks looking for our "guardian" (Iggy and I are allowed to bomb their squad cars; AWESOME).

Anyway, I walk over to my bed and sit down on it, destroying a couple doodles I did during a particularly boring Spanish class last week.

"So, Iggy," I begin, feeling like a mother quizzing her child about his first day of school, "how was play practice?"

"Oo – iet – iz – a – itch," he answers into his bright blue, blood-stained (don't ask) pillow.

"Huh?"

He flips over so that he's lying on his back, sightless blue eyes glaring axes at the ceiling (Iggy's too lame to glare daggers). "Juliet is a bitch."

I don't get it; I Googled _Romeo and Juliet_ out of curiosity when I heard Iggy was trying out for it, and according to what I found, "bitch" doesn't suit Juliet's character at all.

"I thought Juliet was supposed to be nice, pretty, and love-struck," I muse. "Guess I was wrong."

"No, no," my bomb-making partner contradicts himself, "I didn't mean the _character_ Juliet was a bitch; I meant that the girl playing Juliet is a bitch."

"Oh." That makes more sense. "Why is she a bitch?"

Iggy sighs a long and weary sigh. "She's decided that she wants me out of the play at all costs, which she's trying to accomplish by being as horrible to me as she possibly can. But only when the teachers aren't looking, of course. And when I confronted her about it, all she did was say, 'Oh, so you figured it out? Surprising. You _do_ have a few brain cells in that pea-shaped head of yours.' Then she was twice as bitchy to me as before."

Poor Iggy. I want to help him out with this girl – she seems really cruel. "Maybe you could slip a bomb into her locker?" I suggest.

He grins. "Nah, I'd get expelled. But nice idea, bro."

There's one thing I still don't understand though … "Why doesn't she want to be in the play with you?" I inquire. "You're handsome, and smart, and funny, and good at acting … you'd make a great Romeo!"

Once again, he sighs. "It's because I'm the school's resident pervert and wise-ass and she's a preppy, popular honors student. She can't bear to sit within one mile of me, much less pretend to be in love with me in front of the entire school."

"Oh." But I don't really get it.

My confusion must be evident in my tone of voice, because Iggy says, "You'll understand when you're older."

"Oh."

Like enough adults don't say that to me already, now Iggy's saying it to me too? This feels like some kind of a betrayal. I'll think about it more later. Maybe he deserves to "lose" his iPod for a few days …

"Why did you audition for the play if you knew it would be so much trouble?"

"I got fired from my job, remember? So I had too much free time … so I was bored … so I stuck all of the possible after-school activities on our dart board … and the most darts landed near the school play flyer … so …"

"Oh."

It seems like I've been saying "oh" way too many times in the past few minutes.

* * *

><p>I peek around the door of one of Mesa High School's music and drama departments' storage rooms.<p>

_Come on, Gazzy,_ I scold myself, _you've faced Erasers, mutants, robots, Max when she's angry, ninjas, pirates, vikings, and a super-powerful-demon-mutant-zombie-pirate-magic-ninja-evil-overlord-from-Hell-and-outer-space before … Okay, maybe not that last one … but even so, you can face a bunch of high school kids._

_But high school kids are scary! _protests the part of me that is still three years old and still enjoys playing with Legos, drawing with Crayola crayons, and watching Arthur re-runs.

As I bicker with myself about how scary high-schoolers are, I take a minute to examine the room (and the people inside it) further. It's a small room, maybe ten feet by ten feet, with bland, white-washed walls and a cracked (but still shiny) mirror going along the back wall. I can barely see the left and right walls behind huge racks of costumes of all shapes, sizes, and colors that are pushed up against them. Looking more closely, I find a small, black, electrical piano lurking underneath a few princess-type dresses in the back-left corner. The new tech crew members are in the middle of the room. There are about twenty of them, all sitting in light brown folding chairs arranged in an oval that got squashed on its way to becoming a circle (except for an older woman with short, curly black hair and glasses with blue-and-green-striped frames who I assume is one of the teachers in charge of running the play). There are eight boys – two jocks with curly blond hair; three geeks with matching huge black glasses; one geek without glasses; one tall African-American who looks like he got lost on his way to basketball club and ended up here instead; and one goth with dyed black hair – and eleven girls – four extremely pretty, preppy, popular girls; one greasy-haired girl who apparently hasn't discovered the existence of face wash yet; one girl so tiny she looks like she belongs in elementary school, not high school; two punks with half of their hair dyed pink; two musicians holding on to instrument cases like they're precious gemstones; and one shy-looking, bookwormish, nerdy girl.

"… a partner who you'll be willing to spend all of the next six weeks' meetings with," the teacher is saying.

This is followed by a sound of scraping that grates on my ears like a knife on metal; chairs are being dragged across the room so that partners can sit next to each other.

Suddenly, there is a loud _SLAM_ and I find myself on the inside of the storage room. At my feet, the wedge that was holding the door open mocks me; it must have slid out and caused the door to shut. Of course, having been leaning on the door, I came with it.

Slowly, I tilt my head up to face the group of high-schoolers. Most of them are laughing their heads off at my predicament, and the remainder look as though they couldn't care less – all except for the bookwormish girl, who seems to be committing every detail of the event to memory so that she can write it down later.

The teacher simply looks a little shocked – not that I blame her. Sixth graders aren't supposed to invade the high school.

"Who are you and why are you here?" she inquires.

"I'm … I'm Gazzy Griffiths," I say feebly, feeling a bit like a prisoner of war being interrogated. (I decided to take Iggy's last name, since it would make it easier for us to appear as brothers). "I want to join tech crew."

Yes, this is my genius plan. How else to help Iggy deal with the Juliet-bitch (which is what I'm calling her until I figure out her real name) than to join something that would let me into their rehearsals once a week?

(That was a rhetorical question, just so you now. Don't answer it.)

"But … you have to attend the high school to do that," the teacher tells me.

_Shit_, I internally swear. But on the outside, all I do is ask, "Are you sure?"

"Of course," she replies. "There's a tech crew for the middle school play, you can join that."

"But I have to join this one!" I try to widen my eyes as much as I can, the way Nudge does when she really wants something. "My brother, Iggy, has the main part in the play and I want to watch him practice! Besides," I add, pointing into the room, "that girl needs a partner."

Swiveling around to see who I'm pointing at, the teacher realizes that, indeed, the bookwormish girl is still sitting in the center of the room, where she was before, without anybody sitting next to her. All of the tech crew members have paired up except for her.

"Well, when you put it that way …" the teacher begins, once again facing me. "You're still not supposed to be here, so get your butt out of this room before I have to call security."

What? I thought she was about to say I could join anyway! Note to self: ask Nudge for pleading lessons…

I've taken two steps back out of the doorway when she grins and winks. "I was kidding. But you better behave, or you're be sorrier than a fly in a blender."

The other kids seem to find this hilariously funny, as if it's the funniest thing they've heard all week (then again, from the way Iggy describes high school, maybe it is).

I fake a meek, beaten-down expression, answer, "Yes ma'am," in my best Southern accent (which makes the others laugh even harder), and scuttle over to the girl without a partner.

The teacher turns back to the group and commences blathering on about schedules and meeting times and attendance policies and rotations and all that other stuff we kids all hear so often in schools that we've stopped caring about it.

"Hi," I whisper to the girl.

For a moment, she looks startled, as if unsure I was speaking to her. Then, with a smile, she replies, "Hi, I'm Liz."

Liz. A short, boring sort of name, but one that has a z in it. Z is my favorite letter. So, I decided that I like her name, and I like her. She didn't laugh at me like all the others did, and she has a nice smile.

Wait a second. When someone introduces themselves to you, you're supposed to introduce yourself to them, right? I think so. It's times like these when I wish my brain had a manners guide. Or Google. Or Wikipedia. But not Bing – Bing is lame. I mean, Bing stands for Because It's Not Google. How lame is that?

Anyway.

"I'm –"

"Gazzy," she finishes for me. "You said it earlier."

"Oh. Right. Yeah."

Completely out of the blue, I pick my name out of the teacher's lecture. Picking your name out of announcements, lectures, and the like is one of those incredibly useful survival traits the human race developed about the same time as it developed speaker systems.

"… Liz and Gazzy, you'll start as storage crew," she tells us. All the other groups are assigned jobs as well, and we'll rotate around for a couple weeks until each group finds something they enjoy, at which point each group will stick with one job.

All of the other groups suddenly exit the storage room. I'm completely baffled as to what's going on – one of the downsides to not paying attention, I guess.

"We're supposed to go to the stage," Liz explains.

"Which is … where, exactly?"

"In the cafeteria." Well, _somebody's_ been honing her sarcastic commenting abilities … I like her even more now. "It's behind the auditorium, where else do you think a stage would be? Come on, I'll show you a secret route to get there I discovered during jazz band one time …"

* * *

><p><strong>Gazzy: *sings* <em>Kneel before me! Praise me! Give me praise! Come here! Let me pet you! I am so fucking awesome! Seriously! Like a little bird! Little bird! It was riding on me!<em>**

**Me: Sigh. (By the way, he was singing My Song That Is Written By Me, For Me by Prussia from Hetalia, if anyone was curious ...)**

**Me and Gazzy: REVIEWS ARE LOVED!**

**Gazzy: AND STUFF!**

**Me: THAT IS ISH!**


	3. Apparently, Bitch Isn't An Insult

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 3: Apparently, "Bitch" Isn't An Insult**

**RANDOM COMMENT OF THE WEEK:**

**"If life gives you lemons, use science to make mutant lemons, then use those mutant lemons to take over the world." – the Mega-Science counselor at my camp**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED****: When Gazzy thought, **_Come on, Gazzy,__you've faced Erasers, mutants, robots, Max when she's angry, ninjas, pirates, vikings, and a super-powerful-demon-mutant-zombie-pirate-magic-ninja-evil-overlord-from-Hell-and-outer-space before._** A super-powerful-demon-mutant-zombie-pirate-magic-ninja-evil-overlord-from-Hell-and-outer-space is a creature that appears in the Eddsworld toon Spares - it's the **villain** in the movie that Edd, Tom, Matt, and Tord were watching at the beginning of the cartoon.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: _deathtobieber_. Congratulations! And awesome username! :)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Twilight. (If nobody gets this one, then ... well ... shoes make wonderful weapons, you know ...)**

**Me: One -**

**Gazzy: Two -**

**Me: Three -**

**Me and Gazzy: *sing badly* _HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR jojoandkristinaRbamfZ, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!_**

**Me: ... What? She reviewed saying she hoped I'd update today, since today is her birthday.**

**Gazzy: It's a Monday, so Owl updated.**

**Me: And it's her birthday, so we sang happy birthday to her!**

**Gazzy: Now enjoy the chapter, everyone!**

* * *

><p>"Well, you two are certainly fast learners," remarks a somewhat tall, Asian (I won't say Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Taiwanese, or any other specific Asian country because I can't tell any of them apart) senior whom I believe is the student director. "Normally it takes me the whole forty-five minutes to get through my explanation on the prompters, but you guys were done in twenty."<p>

After surviving a boring lecture about props and sets from the school's wood shop teacher – "You have to do it exactly like this and this and this and … no, you're doing it wrong! You have to do it just right or else you'll damage them, and these took hours and hours of class time to create! If you break even one tiny piece I'll have you cut to pieces and hung out to dry on the flagpole in front of the school, I'll make a voodoo doll of you and stick pins in it, I'll call every relative you have and tell them how horrible you are, I'll …" – Gazzy and I have moved on to learning how to run the teleprompters. Well, if you can call a couple of rolls of white printer paper bigger than Gazzy with the entire play printed out onto them that have been mounted on what looks like a huge, metal toilet paper stand that can be rolled to the front, side, or back of the stage teleprompters … which I don't think you can … I don't know why the student director is so surprised we caught on quickly, really. All you have to do to man the things is pull the paper down the rolls at about the same speed as the actors say their lines while standing in such a way that the actors can still read them. Maybe the rest of the kids he had to train were horrible at multitasking or something.

"So what do we do now?" my partner in tech-crew-ing inquires. Gazzy must've read my mind; I was about to ask the same thing. I'll try to describe Gazzy for a moment here. He's … a weird kid. Okay, I have to do better than that. You could tell that Gazzy's a weird kid just by looking at him; his long, blond hair is gelled into spikes that stick up all over his head, his ears look like they belong on a monkey, his eyes are an almost hypnotic shade of bright blue, and he's wearing clothes that look like they came out of a dumpster. But if you can get past his appearance, Gazzy isn't half bad. He's kind and respectful (except for when he's making wise-cracks) and definitely smart. I like him, although I don't trust him. He seems like the kind of kid who sucks up to you, then sticks a stink bomb under your chair and spends the rest of the week boasting about his cunning.

The student director shrugs. "All you needed to do today is done, so you can go home, if you want."

"Can we sit and watch the rehearsal?"

He shrugs again. "I don't see why not."

Gazzy pumps his fist in the air, almost hitting me in the process. "BOOM!"

"Boom?" I wonder out loud.

"Well, the fact that we can sit and watch the rehearsal is awesome," the sixth-grader explains, "and bombs are awesome, and bombs go boom, so I said 'BOOM!' to … uh …"

"Express your enthusiasm about our getting to do something awesome?" I suggest.

"Yeah, that."

A minute or so later, Gazzy and I are seated in the front row of the auditorium, eating invisible popcorn while we watch the mostly-nonexistent show. It's a fairly large auditorium, about half the size of a football field, which makes sense when you figure that the average class size of Mesa High is about six hundred students. The chairs are upholstered in slightly dingy indigo fabric and clustered in nine sections; three each in the front, middle, and back. Behind the last row of chairs is a darkened window that I think holds the sound and lighting controls. The dark gray-carpeted floor is on a steep incline so that people seated in the back can still see. The stage, a golden-brown platform that seems to be slowly sucked back by the darkness behind it, is elevated a couple feet above the pit (the area in front of the first row of seats where risers can be set up for chorus concerts and the like) and partly concealed by enormous crimson curtains.

Basically, it's your typical high school auditorium.

On the stage, a small group of cast members is practicing the scene where Romeo and Juliet meet for the first time. Iggy and a shaggy black-haired junior who is probably playing Benvolio, Romeo's cousin and best friend, huddle in the center of the stage, feigning nervousness at their infiltration of the enemy's party. Or at least, Benvolio is feigning nervousness. Unless, of course, pulling the most obnoxious and disgusting facial expressions in existence counts as feigning nervousness…

Suddenly, Mrs. Jasani, the lady who spoke to the tech crew earlier, shouts, "Now!" and Ella glides onto the screen, poised like she's wearing a beautiful ball gown and not jeans and a faded white hoodie. At least, she is until she catches sight of Iggy.

"Is it possible for you to be serious for just one minute?" she asks him in exasperation. "Don't you understand that in just a few weeks, we have a play to put on? This is a rehearsal, not a test to see how much you can get on my nerves in the space of an hour and a half."

I give Ella a thumbs up to show her she has my support, and she smiles warily for a moment, then she suddenly looks as if someone just told her that chocolate chip cookies are now extinct.

A voice so angry I almost don't recognize it as Gazzy's emanates from my left.

"So, you're the Juliet-bitch."

The auditorium is so silent, I can hear my own heart beat.

Gazzy, now standing, is quivering with … anger? But why is he so angry? And why at Ella? It's not like she did anything to hurt him … all she did was purposely be mean to Iggy … also known as Gazzy's older brother … oh.

Shit.

**THE PLAN** might not work so well after all.

"So, you called me a bitch, did you?" Ella says coolly, completely recovered from her earlier shock.

"Yeah. You're the Juliet-bitch. I don't know your name, so I'm calling you that, since that's what you are," Gazzy replies.

"Do you even know what a bitch is?"

"Umm … a girl dog, right?"

"Exactly. A bitch is a female dog. Dogs bark. Bark grows on trees. Trees are part of nature. Nature is beautiful. So, basically, you just called me beautiful. Thank you for the compliment."

More silence.

Then, suddenly …

_Clap, clap. Clap, clap. Clapclapclapclapclap._

The auditorium explodes into applause.

You see, out of all the people in the world, when called a bitch, ninety percent would try to start a fight. nine percent would break down and cry. Ella has just demonstrated that she is part of the remaining one percent, who would turn the insult into a compliment.

"Bravo, Juliet! Bravo," calls the guy who started the clapping, otherwise known as – believe it or not – Iggy.

The girl in question flounces off the stage and out of the auditorium, seemingly immune to the cheering.

"Practice … practice over. All of you are dismissed," says a flustered Mrs. Jasani.

* * *

><p>The sounds of footsteps and teenage banter echo through the purple-and-blue-colored hallway as a couple hundred kids make their way to the front entrance of the school. Gazzy and I seem to be the only ones not talking. I'm not sure if it's because he just accused my best friend of being a bitch (which I'm not actually that mad about; he had good reason to and it's not like Ella was hurt by it) or if it's simply companionable silence.<p>

His hindquarters, apparently, have other ideas.

"Lovely," I observe sarcastically.

Gazzy's expression is a weird combination of guilt and pleasure, the sort of expression one might have if one were to rob a bank, safely bury all the profits, and _then_ get caught. "Aren't you going to run in the other direction?"

"Why would I do that?" I question.

"Well … I stink."

"So?" _Should I tell him? Can I trust him? … I think I can. _"It's not like I can smell it."

"You can't smell?" he inquires, a bit shocked but also sort of happy; he's finally found someone who won't yell at him every time he … releases gas.

"Yeah," I confirm. "Got a problem with that?"

I find myself enveloped in a bear hug. This kid is a hell of a lot stronger than he looks. And really warm, for some reason … "Can't … breathe …"

"Oh. Sorry." He releases me. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

I grin, then get an idea. "Hey, do you have an email address?"

"Yeah, it's _i make things go boom yahoo . com_."

"Mine is _writer with a nose gmail . com_. I'll email you, 'kay?"

"BOOM!"

"See you next week!"

"Yeah, see ya."

* * *

><p>"Ellllllllllla, where aaaaarrrrre you?"<p>

Being all alone in your school after the day is over isn't really all that exciting, as I'm quickly discovering. It's actually pretty creepy. I keep feeling like a ghost or vampire or evil janitor is going to pop out of a closet somewhere and cut off my head with a chainsaw.

Which is why I need to find Ella. And soon. Not only is she my ride home, she'll probably use her Ellaness to dispel all the ghosts and vampires and evil janitors that might be lurking in closets, waiting to cut off our heads with chainsaws.

I start opening doors, my search becoming more and more frantic. Cafeteria – empty. Math room – empty. History room – empty. Band room – empty. English room – empty. Gym – empty. Girl's bathroom – empty.

Wait a second … what are those sniffling noises coming from the last stall?

"Ella?"

"Don't … talk … to me."

"Ella, you sound like you were drowned and then rescued, but your rescuer turned out to be a vampire who raped you and then bit you and then turned you over to some Justin Bieber wannabes, who tortured you in song, then gave you to a sparkly fairy who disgusted you with his cheesy attempts at romance, then threw you into the middle of a fight between some ninjas and pirates, and then you were caught by an army of Vikings, who ..."

"Okay, okay, I get it," she interrupts me, laughing a little (which sounds strange mixed in with her sniffling.)

I walk up to the stall door and press my face against it. It's really uncomfortable – cold, neon orange (worst color ever, in my opinion), and probably hasn't been washed in years – but at least Ella can hear me without me having to yell.

"Seriously, Ella," I say so softly it's almost a whisper, "what's wrong?"

My sympathetic question sends her into sobbing mode. "He … he called me a … a bitch."

"People have called you a bitch before," I remind her. Unfortunately, I'm not lying. Though popularity has its pros, it has its cons, too. One major con is the requirement to be mean to those below you on the social ladder from time to time, and, well, insulted people get angry. It's a fact of life, I guess.

"This time was … d … d … different," my friend chokes out. "All the other times … there was a good … a good _reason_ for it. But this time … I don't even _know_ the kid who called me a bitch! What did I do? How did I get to a point where some random middle school brat can see me and immediately figure out that I'm a bitch?"

"First of all," I begin, internally writing and editing one of what Ella calls "Lizzy's Annoying But Useful Pep Talks," "you're not a bitch. You're mean to people sometimes, but isn't everyone? It doesn't make you a bitch. Plus, last I checked, you're not a female dog." I earn another laugh – definite good sign. "Second, you're just gonna have to deal with this. You can't hide in the bathroom every time someone insults you; not only will you never accomplish anything, you'll get a reputation as a wimp. Third, that middle school brat actually does have a good reason to hate you: Iggy's his older brother, and as we both know, you were being horrible to Iggy. So there."

"Iggy has a brother? Who's in tech crew?" she inquires.

"Yeah," I reply. "Gazzy joined for the same reason I did: providing moral support. Anyway, that's not important. What is important is that **THE PLAN** isn't working. Iggy actually figured it out – he's smarter than he appears to be, I guess – and who knows what _that_ could mean."

The stall door suddenly swings open and I nearly fall over the way Gazzy did in the storage room earlier. Ella emerges, looking like a complete mess with runny eye shadow and tear tracks down her cheeks, and heads straight for the row of sinks across the other side of the bathroom. She spends the next couple minutes washing her face and re-applying make-up. As if there's anyone who might see us. I roll my eyes. Ooh, look, those three spots on the ceiling make a smiley face!

Anyway.

Ella turns around, all evidence of depression replaced with her usual confidence. "We need a new plan."

"No, we don't."

"What? You just admitted yourself that our old one isn't working!"

"I think you should just deal with Iggy," I explain. "Sure, he may be annoying and he may hate your guts, but he's a good actor and he's –"

"How can you take his side?"

"He's good for you." Before she can protest, I continue, "When you become an actress, you'll have to deal with people who hate you. Other actors, directors, camera people, producers, haters, stage crews, whatever. And you won't be able to get rid of them. So why not start now? Practice on Iggy? Maybe give him a chance to actually act?"

She considers the idea for a bit, then says, "Maybe."

"Maybe is better than no."

"The way a third of a cookie is better than a quarter of a cookie."

"Unless you don't like cookies."

"Touché. Oh, and thanks."

"For what?"

"The pep talk."

"No problem. After all, it's what I'm here for: advice and moral support."

* * *

><p><em>To: Gazzy<em>

_From: Liz_

_Subject: Salutations!_

Testing, testing. Is this thing on? Do I have the right address?

* * *

><p><em>To: Liz<em>

_From: Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: Salutations!_

Yeah, you've got it right.

So …

*is bored*

* * *

><p><em>To: Gazzy<em>

_From: Liz_

_Subject: RE: Salutations!_

Hey, Gazzy, what do you want to be when you grow up?

I read somewhere that someone's goals in life tell a lot about him/her.

* * *

><p><em>To: Liz<em>

_From: Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: Salutations!_

I want to be someone who makes things go boom, and gets paid lots of money for it. Or a taste-tester. Or maybe someone who makes stink bombs. What about you?

* * *

><p><em>To: Gazzy<em>

_From: Liz_

_Subject: RE: Salutations!_

I want to write.

More specifically, I want to write books.

Well, more than that. What I really want to do, for at least five or so years of my life, before I have a family and all that loveliness, is rent a tiny apartment in a big city. I'd spend my days wandering around the city, exploring its every nook and cranny, and write. Write and write and write.

New York is preferable, though any big city will do.

And later in life, I want to teach – either English, history, or some sort of music.

… Kinda weird, isn't it?

* * *

><p><em>To: Liz<em>

_From: Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: Salutations!_

It's not weird, it's pretty cool, I think. I hope you get to do that, someday. I'll read what you write, even if other people say it sucks.

* * *

><p><em>To: Gazzy<em>

_From: Liz_

_Subject: RE: Salutations!_

Thanks. I hope you get to be someone who makes things go boom, and gets paid lots of money for it someday. Or a taste-tester. Or someone who makes stink bombs.

* * *

><p><em>To: Liz<em>

_From: Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: Salutations!_

Thanks.

* * *

><p><em>To: Gazzy<em>

_From: Liz_

_Subject: RE: Salutations!_

You're welcome. ^_^

* * *

><p><strong>Gazzy: SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT!<strong>

**Me: If you like Hetalia, then you might want to put me on Author Alert, because I will be posting a GerIta fic later today. And possibly another one tomorrow.**

**Gazzy: The Hetalia plot bunnies are invading your mind, aren't they?**

**Me: Yeah. And it's annoying, because when they do, I can't work on this story.**

**Gazzy: Which is even more horrible than Germany refusing a beer and/or wurst.**

**Me: Eggy-zactaly.**

**Me and Gazzy: REVIEWS ARE LOVED!**


	4. Goddesses, Turds, and Harry Potter

****SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH****

**CHP 4: I Meet a Goddess, a Turd, and a Harry Potter Lookalike**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK:**

**"I ate them." - a ropes counselor at my camp when asked where the other two counselors were**

**"Nothing is strange at a ComicCon." "Everything is awesome." - me and my friend Lilah (FlyingSolo365)  
><strong>

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED****: When Liz said, "... then gave you to a sparkly fairy who disgusted you with his cheesy attempts at romance ..." A sparkly fairy who disgusted you with his cheesy attempts at romance is, obviously, Edward Cullen.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:_ FangNotFnick _Congrats!_  
><em>**

****THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: The book Carpe Diem by Autumn Cornwell. (Since this chapter's reference to something awesome is pretty much impossible to find if you haven't actually read that book, here's a hint: look in the awesome quotes section of my profile.)****

****Hey, everyone! Sorry this chapter was a bit late. (It's really long, though; does that make up for it?) It's hard to focus on writing a MR story when you went to a ComicCon the previous Saturday (which was incredibly awesome - think impromptu Caramelldansen parties, dancing Doctor Whos, giant Tetris pieces, joke-telling Spocks, and lots of pocky and you will get the idea) and are currently writing a Hetalia fic based around your friend's wedding to Prussia. (If you want to know more about that, go look at my story A Wedding of Prussiaistic Proportions.)****

****Without further ado, here's chapter four!  
><strong>**

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: Liz_

_Subject: This Sunday…_

This might sound a bit awkward, but … um … would you like to come over to my house this Sunday? My dad just got promoted and we're inviting a bunch of people over to celebrate. Some of my dad's friends have kids your age, so you wouldn't be alone or anything… I just figured you might like to come. (And no, Iggy isn't invited. Ella's coming, and if both of them were in the same place for more than a couple hours … well, let's just say my dad doesn't want the house to be destroyed.)

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: This Sunday…_

Hmm, would I like to come? That depends on one thing: What's for dinner?

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: Liz_

_Subject: RE: This Sunday…_

My mom is making steak and potatoes, and there will probably be a lot of cheese and bread.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: This Sunday…_

STEAK! YESSSS! It's been, like, YEARS since I ate steak! I'm definitely coming.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: Liz_

_Subject: RE: This Sunday_

Awesome. Try to get here by 5pm or so. Oh, and my address is 106 Wedgewood Drive.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: This Sunday…_

Okay, got it. See you Sunday!

* * *

><p><em>Dong-dong-dong-dong, dong-dong-dong-dong.<em>

As the doorbell of Liz's house rings, I pace across the porch, trying to resist the temptation to climb on the railing or conquer the swing hanging from the roof beams. Liz's house is the sort of house the Flock has always wished we could have – a fairly large house with a huge yard with plenty of trees for climbing (or hiding in), an abundance of windows, a roof that is easily reached from some of those windows, and a few wild raspberry bushes sitting on the fringes of the yard.

When I'm about to perish from sheer impatience (I had to wait an entire thirty seconds; can you believe it?) the door opens, revealing the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire life. (And that includes various models, actresses, and Max-when-she's-actually-clean.) Many authors use the adjective "angelic" to describe beautiful girls, but that just doesn't fit this one. She's the opposite of angelic; she's downright demonic. The mischievous glint in her eyes – the sort of huge, hazel eyes that one could fall into and never find one's way back out of – the upward slant of her thick, dark-brown eyebrows, and the evil grin worn by her perfect red-pink lips reveal that much. Straight chestnut-brown hair held back with a lavender headband cascades down her back. She's wearing a t-shirt the color of her headband proclaiming "Dumbledore's Army" in large black letters, jeans, and worn-out flip flops, but she somehow manages to make them look like an exquisite million-dollar ball gown. My eyes travel up and down her body, sucking in every single detail like James sucking every single drop of blood out of Bella's body. (Oh, wait, Bella survived, didn't she? Shame.) I wish I could just grab her and … uh … do whatever men are supposed to do to hot girls. (Note to self: Ask Iggy what men are supposed to do to hot girls.)

Just then, I realize that the goddess is speaking. "Hi. You must be Gazzy, right?"

"Uh … um … yeah," I stutter once I regain the ability to speak.

"Great!" she exclaims. "Now come on; we're tying Molly to a tree out back and could _definitely_ use an extra pair of hands.'

Before I can ask, "Who's _we_?"; "Who's Molly?"; "Why are you tying her to a tree?"; 'Can you tie _me_ to a tree?"; or "Do you think it's possible that I could be in love with you after less than a minute of knowing you?" she charges into the house. After staring at her swinging hindquarters for a few seconds, I hurry after her.

_Tying someone to a tree?_

_Guess I was right about her being mischievous._

* * *

><p>As I race through Liz's house, a foyer, living room, and kitchen pass in a blur of white walls, bookshelves, mouth-watering appetizers, and conversing guests. I think I catch a glimpse of Liz playing something on an ebony upright piano, but before I can say "Hi!" I nearly lose sight of the goddess and have to rush off again. It's not that she's faster than me, it's just that she had a head start, and she's familiar with the house where as I have to continually swerve so that I don't run into things, and … well … okay, maybe she <em>is<em> faster than me. Just a little.

And then, suddenly …

_SLAM!_

I find myself face-to-face with an invisible wall.

"Who put that there?" I wonder indignantly, stepping away from the wall.

"Harry Potter," the goddess replies sarcastically, sliding the wall away with a handle on its edge. So she's sarcastic, too! Another plus! And is it just me, or does her voice sound a heck of a lot like Liz's?

I tentatively touch the space the wall was occupying a few seconds ago. Once I'm positive it's all gone (like Iggy's virginity – heh, he wishes) I step out onto a stone patio that leads out into a grassy yard. Well, half of the yard is grassy anyway; the back half is made up of tall, wild grass that seems as if it hasn't been cut in years which eventually gives way to a scraggly forest that may or may not be populated by trolls. (Trolls of the Sea of Trolls variety, not of the internet-argument-generating variety.) A tall, majestic tree stands sentry in the center of the grassy yard with a small group of kids gathered around it.

The goddess strides over to the tree and commences barking orders at the others with military-like precision. "Craig, you wind the rope around the back of the tree. Gwen, you videotape. Nick, you help me tie the rope. And Gazzy …" – she turns around to inspect me, like she's determining how much I can handle – "you hold on to Molly."

A short, skinny girl with curly brown hair, dirty jeans, and bright green eyes holds a shiny video camera aloft and presses a large red button in its center. "We're on," she announces. _She must be Gwen,_ I think.

A short, chubby boy of maybe five years old with a lion's mane of dark blond hair and glasses on the verge of falling apart circulates the trunk of the tree until the twine he's holding is secured around it. _He must be Craig._

So the other girl, the one who looks like Gwen, only in miniature … she's Molly. The one I'm supposed to catch. Oh, this will be easier than making Max angry. Molly is half my size!

As I lunge forward to grab the munchkin by her legs, she takes off in the other direction like a cheetah on steroids.

"Hey!" I holler. "Get back here!"

She simply runs faster, if that's even possible.

I sigh in consternation and charge after her.

* * *

><p>It takes ten tries, a lot of coaxing, some Justin Bieber lyrics, and half a pound of Bacon, but I'm finally pinning Molly to the oak as the goddess and the last boy – Nick – wind the rope around her. When it seems safe to let go, I step back and watch with Craig, Gwen, and the red, unblinking eye of the video camera.<p>

The more I watch, the angrier I get.

You see, Nick is what a twelve-year-old-girl (such as the goddess) might call "hot." He has unruly black hair, muscled arms and legs, one of those faces romance writers call "chiseled," emerald eyes of the "dreamy" variety…

Oh, this is _so_ awkward.

I'm describing a cute _guy_.

Um, I'm straight, thanks very much.

(And yes, it had been proven. Iggy tried to convert me one time … I still shudder at the memory.)

Anyway, moving on …

The thing that most annoys me about this guy (even more than his confident smirk, expensive clothes, and jibes about how he could've caught Molly without any help from the Bacon gods) is how he goes out of his way to … touch the goddess. Not in a perverted way, really, but … he'll purposely brush her hand while reaching for the rope, or bump hips with her as he goes around the tree, or touch her butt as he grabs a dropped piece of rope.

I don't even notice that my teeth and fists are clenched until Craig asks me why I'm being an angry rhino.

"I'm not an angry rhino; I'm an angry hippopotamus," I retort.

"My starving donkey is angrier than your hippo," he informs me calmly, "because he didn't get any of the Bacon you gave to Molly."

"Maybe my hippo will give your donkey some Bacon the next time he has some."

Craig is horrified. "But my donkey will die before that happens!"

"What? Why?" I inquire.

"He's a _starving_ donkey, you see. Starvation is a form of malnutrition. Malnutrition causes death and cancer, which causes death."

Okay, this is one freaky little kid …

"But everything causes death in the long run!" I argue.

Craig suddenly bursts into tears. "Waaaah, I'm gonna die!" he sobs.

Before I can apologize, the goddess steps back from the tree. Molly is bound to the trunk with a dozen strands of wire that hold her there, even as she struggles to get free.

"Q.E.D.," the goddess says proudly.

"What does that mean?" I wonder aloud.

"It stands for Quad Erat Demonstrandum," she explains. "It means … well … I'm not sure what it means exactly, but it's something you put at the end of a mathematical proof to say that you're done."

'It means 'what was to be demonstrated,'" Nick adds.

_Oh, so Turd Number One is a smarty-pants, too? Grrr. Gazzy kill._

"Ohmigods, Gazzy, I completely forgot to introduce you to everyone!" the goddess exclaims. "I'm Iris, Liz's sister."

_A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,_ I think. _And the name of a goddess, too! Maybe I'm more psychic than I give myself credit for…_

She points to Nick. "This is Nick, he's – you're friends with Liz, right?"

I nod.

"Well, Nick is Liz's boyfriend's younger brother. Liz's boyfriend is Adam; he's inside with Liz, Ella, and Anne."

_So his older brother is Liz's boyfriend? Crud. This could make things more difficult…_

"Anne – who's Liz's age – Gwen – who's in sixth grade with me – and Molly – who's in third grade – are the three daughters of one of my dad's friends." She points to Gwen and Molly in turn.

_That would explain why Gwen and Molly look alike._

"If you know Liz, you know Ella … and Craig is the son of another one of my dad's friends." She points to the space where Craig was a short while ago. "Craig? Where did Craig go?"

I look around. Craig has disappeared into thin air. (You know, I really hate that saying. It's so cliché. Plus, "he disappeared into thin air?" What else could he disappear into? Thick air?)

"He was here a minute ago …" Gwen observes.

Iris's face goes white – not that it looks bad or anything. Only, now, she sorta looks like a vampire. "Crap," she swears. "My dad will _kill_ me if he gets lost in the woods back there. And by kill, I mean burn all my Harry Potter books, which is –"

"– worse than death," I finish for her.

Without saying another word, we sprint off in various directions in search of the five-year-old lover of Bacon.

* * *

><p>It turns out to be a false alarm.<p>

We locate the annoyance in the kitchen, on the lap of a pretty-but-strained woman in a navy blue sweater whose eyes are the same dark brown color as Craig's.

"Мама," he sobs, "cтрашний мальчик сказал что я буду умеру!"

"What did he say?" I ask, turning to Iris – wait, where did she go? And where's Nick, for that matter?

Before I can fully grasp what this might mean and start getting angry, Iris's voice emanates from behind me. "He said, 'Mommy, the scary boy said I was going to die!' He sometimes talks in Russian, since his parents are Russian."

I whip around, thinking, _Thank fnick_, and … it's Liz.

Shit.

Not that I'm not happy to see Liz or anything, but …

Shit.

"Oh, hi, Liz," I say, trying to hid my disappointment.

"Greetings and salutations," she greets me cheerfully. Liz is wearing an exceedingly awesome t-shirt covered in a painting of Central Park during the springtime, a pleated black skirt that would probably be fun to twirl in – you know, if I was a girl – and her usual gray flip-flops. Her unruly brown hair is French-braided, which must have taken Herculean effort, given how much she complains about its uncooporative-ness.

"What's up?" I ask her.

"The ceiling," she replies, grinning at my instigation of one of her favorite jokes. "Why do you ask?"

"So, you're Iggy's pet-animal-who-happens-to-share-the-same-parents, neh?" a voice from behind me inquires.

"Eh," Liz tells the person as I turn to see who it is. I feel like it's Come-Up-Behind-Gazzy-and-Scare-Him Day – after all, this is the second time it's happened. Anyway, the guy must be Nick's older brother – he has the same sort of face, hair color, and hairstyle as Turd Number One. Unlike Nick, though, this guy has round, Harry-Potter-esque glasses and dark blue eyes.

"'Pet-animal-who-happens-to-share-the-same-parents' means 'kid brother,'" Liz informs me helpfully. "And 'neh' and 'eh' are terms from Enderverse, which is a book series."

"A book series that is the reincarnation of pure awesomeness, Vikings, Bacon, and Chuck Norris _combined_," the guy corrects her, "neh?"

"Eh," Liz agrees. They high-appendage, laughing at some sort of private joke.

"So," I say, looking at the Harry Potter look-a-like, "I'm Iggy's … younger brother. And you're Turd Number One's older brother, right?"

He grins, so I guess he knows who I meant. "Yep, he's my brother, unfortunately enough." Bowing formally and adopting a very-fake-but-quite-hilarious British accent, he adds, "Adam Junto, high-class intellectual badass and boyfriend of even-higher-class intellectual badass at your service."

I return the bow (and the accent.) "Gazzy Griffiths, explosives expert extraordinaire at yours."

"Nice alliteration," Liz compliments me.

Wait …

How did Liz get behind me?

And why is she still in front of me?

"Hey, I paid you a compliment!" Liz's voice reprimands me from behind … but it doesn't look like Liz is talking …

I spin for the third time today to find Iris standing on the staircase leading upstairs, laughing at my expression of what must be surprise, annoyance, and glee combined.

"Today is, without a doubt, Come-Up-Behind-Gazzy-and-Scare-Him Day," I remark. The goddess only laughs more – a wonderful laugh at that sounds like the cackling of an evil overlord who just doubled her territory _and_ murdered her worst enemy. For some reason, I really have to pee all of a sudden.

"Where's the bathroom?" I look quizzically at Iris.

"Right where I left it."

"… You were in the bathroom?"

_She wasn't with Turd Number One. Yes!_

"No, I was locked in the basement by a group of renegade ninjas."

"_What?_"

"It was sarcasm, маразмот. Oh, and the bathroom is upstairs, first door on the left."

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>"So, Gazzy …" Iris begins, then trails off, unsure of what to say.<p>

The two of us are sitting on the roof of the house, gazing up at the stars. Everyone else is downstairs, listening to Liz's and Iris's dad recall his college years cheating off girls and getting drunk on vodka. The stories were quite interesting (I never knew two guys could actually be stubborn enough to leave a window open in below-freezing Siberian winters), but when the goddess poked me in the shoulder and whispered, "I've heard all of these before. Come with me, and I'll show you something _really_ awesome," I couldn't help but follow her. She led me to her room, opened the window over her bed, removed the screen, and climbed out. I followed with a bit of hyperventilation during the climbing-on-her-bed part. (I kept imagining the two of us together in the bed…)

So, here we are, on the roof, with our backs pressed against the cold, hard bricks of the chimney, a night breeze caressing our faces and hair, and a never-ending array of twinkling stars watching over us. It's cold, but not too cold, and with the wind, it would be a perfect night for flying. If only I could show the goddess my wings … she'd forget about that turd Nick for sure. If I did, though, Max would take away my explosives and my stash of Bacon.

"We had fun today, didn't we? Tying Molly to a tree and playing Hide-and-Seek and watching anime and playing jokes on the older kids and everything?" Iris is asking me shyly, her cheeks blushing a light pink. She's so cute when she's nervous.

"Yeah," I reply.

_It was amazing, since I spent it with you._

"You should definitely come over again some time."

"Yeah."

_I'd come see you whenever you wanted._

"Thanks for coming up here with me. To look at the stars."

"Yeah."

_I'd do anything for you._

"The stars are so pretty, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

_But you're a hundred times prettier._

"Do you ever say anything besides 'Yeah?'"

I glance up at the stars. They seem to be egging me on, telling me to be brave.

I inch closer to Iris and carefully drape my arm across her shoulders. Everywhere we touch, little explosions go off in my nervous system. I now it sounds stupid and cliché, but it feels amazing.

She doesn't resist – _Yes!_ – so, in answer to her last question, I whisper in what I imagine is a husky voice, "I prefer to use my mouth for … other things."

"Really?"

"Really."

I lean in … she's so close, I can taste her breath … it's like cherries and chocolate … well, we were eating chocolate-covered cherries for dessert … this is so fnicking unbelievable ... Iggy will be so jealous …

"Iris! Where are you? Mom wants your help clearing the table!" Liz hollers from Iris' bedroom window.

The goddess stands up so fast she nearly knocks me off the roof.

"Sorry," she mumbles as she slips back in through the window.

I simply sit there, trying to remember my name.

_Shit._

* * *

><p><strong>Gazzy: I really don't like you.<strong>

**Me: Well ... that ending bit was mainly to get revenge at my sister ...**

**Gazzy: For making you feel like a failure in life?**

**Me: Yeah, pretty much_._**

**Gazzy: If you were wondering ... Iris is the personification of Owl's actual younger sister. Who recently was asked out. Before Owl.**

**Me: Stop reminding me. Please.**

**Gazzy: Never.**

**Me: You're evil.**

**Gazzy: Reviews are loved!**_  
><em>


	5. Venetian Idiot

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 5: Venetian Idiot**

**RANDOM COMMENT OF THE WEEK:**

**"We are not ****_nurturing_**** the balls. We are not ****_filming_**** the balls. We are ****_throwing_**** the balls." "But … but I love nurturing my ball!" – a Film Camp counselor and camper (during dodge ball)**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: When Gazzy asked Iris, ****"Where's the bathroom?" and she answered, "Right where I left it." Those two lines are a quote from ****Carpe Diem****. (Which you really should read, since it is amazing.)**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: ****_NarniaPrincess21_**** Yay for her!**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Harry Potter (In honor of the new Harry Potter movie – which I haven't seen yet. ARGH. But I will, this Saturday. CANNOT WAIT. But at the same time, CAN WAIT. ****_ARGH_****.)**

**I'm not particularly fond of this chapter (not much happens in it) but … enjoy, I guess.**

* * *

><p>"In this scene," Mrs. Jasani directs, "both of you must show your hatred of the feud between the Montagues and the Capulets."<p>

It's the third Wednesday of play practice, and Gazzy and I are directing lighting as we watch the actors practice. Today's scene to be picked apart, examined, and pieced together again in multiple new ways is the infamous balcony scene. "_Romeo, oh, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?_" and all that lovely romantic nonsense.

"How should we do that?" Ella asks.

"Well," the teacher replies, "you could work it into your facial expression, or you could put anger into your voice, or –"

"Or you could sing it," Iggy suggests, his face lit up like he just figured out how to solve world hunger.

"What?"

I glance at Gazzy. A slightly creepy evil grin is spreading across his mischievous features. We exchange a nod, then dim the lights and position a spotlight directly on Iggy.

"Like this:

_Don't wanna be a Venetian idiot,_

_Don't want a city controlled by the rivalries!_

_And can you hear the sounds of bickering?_

_The Montagues and Capulets at it again._"

"Oh, my God, my ears," Gazzy groans. "I feel like I just had to listen to Baby, Friday, Party in the USA, and the Solja Boy all at the same time."

I roll my eyes, although I have to agree that Iggy is to good singer as quantum physics is to easy to understand. In fact, the only person who actually seems not to mind Iggy's lame excuse for singing is … Ella. Who is grinning. Grinning! Who is she and what did she do to my best friend?

Well, whoever she is, she enjoys torturing her fellow cast members with horrible singing just as much as Iggy does. I turn on a second spotlight.

"_Isn't this a stupid kind of tension,_

_All throughout the stubborn city,_

_Where everything is never okay?_"

Finally, the two of them use previously buried psychic talents to sing (well, you can't really call it singing; let's call it howling) the last couple lines together:

"_Fighting and arguing dreams of tomorrow_

_We're not the ones who're meant to follow_

_And that's enough to fall in love._"

The pair of parody-creators high-five and explode into laughter as if they just saved the world, earned one trillion dollars, and saw their least favorite teacher get arrested for child abuse all at the same time.

"What the hell just happened?" Gazzy voices the collective thoughts of the rest of the auditorium's inhabitants.

"I don't know," I answer, "but I think it was something amazing."

_And it might possibly be enough to prove my theory._

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: That Amazing Thing_

You know how Iggy and Ella created a collaborative Romeo-and-Juliet-ish parody of _American Idiot_ today at play practice? Well, of course you do, you were there. Stupid me.

Anyways, I think we need to make it happen again. Not the Green-Day-parody part, but the Iggy-and-Ella-collaborating part.

Ella was so … unusually cheerful afterwards. Was Iggy?

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

1. What's a collaborative Romeo-and-Juliet-ish parody?

2. Ella? Unusually cheerful? I didn't know it was possible for Ella to be cheerful.

3. Yeah, Iggy has been smiling a lot since Wednesday … it's like he just received a lifetime supply of free Bacon or something.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

1. A collaborative Romeo-and-Juliet-ish parody is a silly version of a song based on Romeo and Juliet that Ella and Iggy made together.

2. Just because Ella's mean to you and Iggy all the time doesn't mean she's mean to everyone …

3. That proves it! Ella and Iggy like each other!

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

Iggy and Ella WHAT?

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

Iggy and Ella like each other. Have crushes on each other. Fancy each other. Want to be each other boyfriend/girlfriend. However you want to say it.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

Okay, okay, I get it. But how do you know? I don't think Iggy has ever liked a girl in his life.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

How I know:

1. I'm a writer, we have to know these things.

2. I said so.

3. I'm awesome like that.

4. The voices told me.

5. Chuck Norris told me.

6. Your mom told me.

7. My sub-consciousness told me.

8. God told me.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

No, really. Seriously. How do you know?

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

How I really, seriously, know:

1. Ella talks about Iggy all the time (sure, it's complaining and ranting, but those count.)

2. They have two common interests – Green Day and humor – and used them to work together on something.

3. They argue all the time.

4. They were happy after they laughed together.

5. They're starring together in a romantic play.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

I don't get it. A lot of those reasons seem like they're reasons they'd hate each other.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

… You've never heard of love-hate, have you.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

Love-hate?

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

Taking that as a no … love-hate is a type of romance pairing very common to action, comedy, and manga. It has three stages:

1. Both the girl and the guy are convinced that they hate each other, even though they secretly admire each other.

2. Both start to realize they like each other, but still hate each other and can't decide between the two.

3. Both confess that they like each other. They still argue a lot, but they're boyfriend/girlfriend or married or something now, and it's not as important to the story.

Ella and Iggy TOTALLY have a love-hate thing going on. I've read/seen enough of it to recognize it when it happens to my best friend.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

Okay, fine. You convinced me. Iggy and Ella like each other. So what can we do about it? Ella has a boyfriend, right?

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

Yeah, she has Robbie … ugh. I wish I could just make Robbie disappear. Or die. Or dump Ella. Or just get out of her life, so she can really fall in love with Iggy.

Hmm …

*strokes invisible beard*

…

Maybe I can tell Robbie that Ella's been cheating on him …

He'd probably give up being her boyfriend if he heard that …

It's not like it would be too horrible for them to break up; Ella doesn't really like him, even if she thinks she does, and besides, he's too short for her. A relationship where the guy is 5'3" and the girl is 5'9" is just _destined_ to fail.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

I never knew you could be so manipulating of people's lives. You always seemed like such a nice person.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

I'm a writer. I'll manipulate the lives of fictional characters for a living, eventually. It's only natural that I'll want to practice on real people.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

Touché.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: RE: That Amazing Thing_

:D

* * *

><p>"Hey. Robbie," I whisper to the boy sitting next to me. Unfortunately, the voices of half-naked men giving violent, poetic, completely incomprehensible speeches in Shakespearean English coming from the video projector block my voice out. We're reading the play <span>Julius Caesar<span> in English, and today, my teacher decided to show us part of the movie version, so we can "understand how Julius Caesar is really supposed to be performed." Not that I blame her – the version my class puts on when we read it aloud is even less enthusiastic than a drug-infested senior taking chemistry for the third time. Anyway, I'm taking the opportunity of today's mostly dark room, voice-disguising noises, and I-don't-give-a-damn-where-you-sit policy to put set Plan for Getting Ella Dumped in action.

"Robbie," I repeat, a little louder.

The sophomore in question looks up from doodling on his English notebook. (If you were curious, he was doodling cow udders. Yeah, I don't want to know either.) "What?"

"Um …" I'm momentarily distracted as I find my blue-gray eyes less than a foot away from Robbie's hazel ones. I had a crush on him at one point, just like pretty much every other girl in my grade. Sure, he's one of the shortest sixteen-year-olds I know, but he makes up for it with features that belong on a Greek hero, a brain that gets him high honors, the ability to excel in basically every sport there is, incredibly gentlemanly manners, a great sense of humor, and what can only be described as the sexiest pair of glasses on the planet. (Glasses are sexy, especially when paired with bright green eyes and a lightning-bolt-shaped scar. It's a proven fact.) Ella was the envy of the sophomore class when he asked her out.

Anyway, I have a job to do. "I have something … important I have to tell you."

I'd never imagined actually telling him would be this difficult … I guess betraying your best friend is harder than it looks in books and movies.

_You're doing it for her own good. Or her love life's own good, anyway,_ I scold myself.

_Yeah, but you're telling your best friend's boyfriend to break up with her!_ another part of me protests.

_If I don't, Ella will probably start cheating on Robbie for real, and you don't want that, do you? _I internally argue.

"What is it?" Robbie asks, looking concerned. Oh yeah. I probably should've said something by now.

"Well, I hate to tell you this, but …" _Come on, Lizanator, you can do this. You're just … betraying your best friend. But you can do this. _"Ella's cheating on you."

"What?" Shock, hurt, concern, despair, anguish, and a couple other emotions I don't recognize flash across the student council president's face.

I look down, hoping he won't see my guilty face. "Yeah, she and Iggy Griffiths … I guess starring in Romeo and Juliet sort-of … caused them to start liking each other for real … or something like that …"

A sharp intake of breath, then deep breathing, like he's trying to calm himself. "Oh."

"I'm really sorry," I tell him. _Sorry about more things than one._

"Should I …"

"I think the best thing to do would be to break up with her before things get out of hand," I suggest. "But don't let her know that you know. Just say that you think your relationship isn't really working out, or that it's getting in the way of something, or some other excuse that boyfriends usually use when they break up with their girlfriends."

He nods. "Yeah. That's probably best. Um, are you positive about …"

"Yeah, I'm positive," I say sadly. "I caught them … making out … in one of the dressing rooms …"

"Oh. Shit." His head is in his hands now. "Shitshitshitshitshit."

"Sorry," I mumble. Within thirty seconds, I'm out of the classroom, bathroom pass swinging from my hand.

_Goal accomplished._

_But at what cost?_

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: Here's the plan._

Ella and Robbie have a date this Saturday evening (around eight, I think) to see some movie or other at the Mesa Cinema. I told Robbie that Ella was cheating on him, so he's going to break up with her then. You have to make Iggy go to a movie there with you at the same time. Maybe set something up between the two of them …?

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Liz_

_From: __Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: Here's the plan._

Got it. The Gasman is on the case.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm in a love-hate relationship with this Hetalia fanfic, <em>Bottoms Up!<em> by _Sunny Day in February_. It's so amazing (really, it should be illegal for Spamano to be written that well) but so long (forty-one at least 2,000-word chapters) and it's consuming my life ... even though I love it. And by consuming my life, I mean, I'm reading it instead of working on this fic.**

**Gazzy: BLASPHEMY!**

**Me: I know, I know...**

**Gazzy: You need help.**

**Me: It's ironic, because I'm usually the therapist for my friends, but ... yeah. HELP. PLEASE.**

**Gazzy: Also, review.**

**Me: We love 'em. And if you're really awesome (which I know you are; how could my reviewers be anything but?) tell me what you thought of the last Harry Potter movie, if you've seen it. Was it good? Do I want to see it? Was it worth it? Will I cry? And, most importantly, _did they do Ron and Hermione's kiss right?_**


	6. At the Movies, There Be Dragons

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 6: At the Movies, There Be Dragons**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK:**

**"IT BURNS LIKE HAPPY!" – the Rocketry counselor at my camp**

**"I lost the game!" "Well, I hope you find it." – a random kid and counselor at my camp**

**"GO ROT IN PRUSSIA!" "You don't rot in Prussia; Prussia rots in ****_you_****." – me and my friend Kris**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: When Liz thought, **_**Glasses are sexy, especially when paired with bright green eyes and a lightning-bolt-shaped scar. It's a proven fact. **_**I don't think I really need to explain that one. By the way, I apologize for making it so easy. It was sort-of added at the last minute. But this week's is harder, I promise. xD**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:**_**NarniaPrincess21**_**(Again.)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: X-Men**

* * *

><p>"That was probably the best movie I've ever seen in my entire life."<p>

"Gazzy, you said that about the last movie we saw."

"Yeah, well, this one was better than that one," I argue, strolling out of the darkness of Theater Five into the hallway of the movie theater. "Remind me again why we didn't go to see How to Train Your Dragon the first time it came out in theaters?"

Iggy sighs in fake exasperation – I can see him failing at smothering a grin. "We were busy saving the world back then, remember?"

"Oh yeah … well, anyway, I know what I want for my next birthday now," I announce, letting an evil smirk creep across my face.

"Really? What?" my brother inquires.

"A dragon! You know, one of those awesome two-headed ones that can fight two people at a time …"

"Gazzy, I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm pretty sure it's not physically possible to get you a dragon for your birthday …"

"It so is _not_! All you have to do is Google 'how to get a dragon' or call the 1800-DRA-GONZ hotline!"

"Right, as if the 1800-DRA-GONZ hotline actually exists …"

"It does! Wikipedia told me so!"

We continue bickering as we exit the Mesa Cinema and roam around the nearby square, watching people scurry around the various shops, restaurants, and other buildings like rats scurrying around a trash heap. It's actually quite nice out for an evening in April – warm and cloudy with a slight breeze. A bit of dampness hangs in the blue-gray air; maybe it'll rain tomorrow. The Mesa Cinema itself is your typical small-city movie theater: a long, low, white-washed building with posters covering the outside walls, a large set of double doors, and a light-lined overhang displaying the movies currently showing. It lies on one corner of an outdoor shopping mall in between a Barnes and Nobles and a Gamestop. Outside the Barnes and Nobles are a couple of book shelves on wheels – probably clearance or something.

… Wait, is that a set of all five Percy Jackson books over there? _Gazzy want._

I race over to see if those five books really are what I thought they were. They are, but before I can beg Iggy for some money, I notice something else.

Or, more specifically, some_one_ else.

At first, I can barely recognize the girl I originally take for a street urchin, but when I do figure out who she is, I let out a small gasp of surprise. (A manly one.)

Iggy hears my gasp (okay, maybe it wasn't _that_ small … it was definitely manly, though) and grabs the arm of my orange sweatshirt. "What? What is it?"

"Ella," I say.

"What about her? Is she here?" His grip on my arm becomes so tight it feels like he's cut off all circulation to my hand.

"She … she looks like she's been run over by a truck or something."

This is all Iggy needs to let go of me and rush off to the left, the opposite direction of where Ella curls up in the fetal position.

"She's about twenty paces to your right," I inform him helpfully.

Scrambling over to Ella, Iggy kneels down in from of her and runs his hands over her, as if trying to see her without actually seeing her (if that makes any sense.) What I told him before was right; she _does_ look like she just got run over by a truck. Her clothes – black jeans and a pretty violet blouse – are covered with grime, like she's been lying on the ground for a while. Her hair is tousled, and her face is poufy and red, as if … as if she's been crying. Chocolate-brown eyes stare up at Iggy in confusion, probably wondering where he came from.

I don't know how much of this Iggy is able to discern, but he must see at least some of it, because he growls, "Okay, whose ass am I kicking?"

Ella mumbles something in response.

"What? Whose?" Iggy almost yells.

"I said, I'll do the ass-kicking myself, thanks very much," Ella repeats, louder. "Just … just take me home," she adds with a small sob.

Her new protector stands up and turns to me. For the first time, I notice how tall he is – six and a half feet – compared to me and how imposing he can be when he's angry. Even though he can't see out of his eyes, explosions rage inside them. He sort-of looks like a dragon about to shoot fire at a not-particularly-innocent person.

"Do you know where her home is?" he snarls at me.

"No … I've no idea." A little scared, I take a step back.

"Shit."

"I know where Liz's house is, though," I say before he can get even angrier.

"Can you lead me there?"

"Yeah, probably."

Iggy bends down and scoops Ella into his arms, where she huddles against his fuzzy black sweatshirt. Curled up into a tiny ball, she seems so tiny, pitiful, mouse-like, and completely un-Ella that it's almost painful to look at her. For Iggy's sake, I'm glad that he can't.

"Okay, let's go," he tells me. We walk (well, he walks; I almost run) out of the outdoor mall and onto the street, which is, as usual, dirty, bad-smelling, and crowded.

As we go, Iggy's grip on Ella tightens, and his glares to passers-by intensify until I think he might be trying to shoot lasers out of his eyes. I'm constantly muttering apologies for him, but at least nobody asks us why a tall, frightening guy carrying a broken-looking girl is traversing the streets of Mesa with a short, spiky-haired kid.

After a few minutes, we reach Liz's house. (I didn't get us lost, thank the deities.) There, Iggy carefully sets Ella down on the front porch, I ring the doorbell, and we sprint back towards home as fast as we can.

It's weird; I knew what the plan was and I knew Ella wouldn't be happy about it, but I never expected her to be so depressed. She always seems so confident, but when her boyfriend breaks up with her, she's completely devastated.

Maybe being a popular bitch isn't all it's made out to be.

* * *

><p><em>RING, RING. RING, RING.<em>

"If Liz doesn't pick up soon, I'm gonna kick her in the balls so hard, she'll – oh, wait, girls don't have balls. Crap. Gazzy, what's the girls' equivalent of a kick in the balls?"

"Um … a kick in the boobs?" I answer, putting my hand over the receiver of the silver cordless phone, just in case someone picked up. It's been two hours since we dropped Ella off at Liz's house, and Iggy has decided he needs to call to make sure she's okay. Except, of course, Iggy is too much of a wimp to actually call a girl; he made me do it for him. So, here we are, me perched on the edge of my bed (I just made it look like an actual bed and not like a trash can, and Max will be mad if I "ruin it") and Iggy pacing the room. Or kicking the various books, magazines, electrical equipment, and junk scattered across the narrow strait between our two beds. Whichever you prefer.

"If Liz doesn't pick up soon," he rants, "I'm gonna kick her in the boobs so hard she'll be begging me for mercy like a Mary-Sue captured by an evil villain with no superhero boyfriend to save her –"

"Hello?"

"Iggy, shut up," I hiss. "She picked up!"

Suddenly, it's like a morgue in here.

"Hi, Liz, this is Gazzy," I greet her. "I was wondering how -"

"Oh, this is Iris," the voice on the other end interrupts me.

Iris! Shit. Shit shit shit shit _shit_. How can I ever dream of impressing _her_ on the phone with Iggy constantly throwing insulting comments at me like I'm a Red Sox player and he's a Yankees fan?

"I … I'm … s-s-so … s-s-sorry …" I stammer.

"Oh, that's okay," she reassures me. "Liz and I have really similar voices, so people get us mixed up on the phone all the time. We used to trick Liz's friends by switching halfway through the conversation without telling the person."

"So cute! And mischievous, too …" I whisper reverently.

Iggy punches me on the shoulder, then demands, "What's going on?"

"Oh, um, I thought it was Liz on the phone, but it was really her sister," I explain, my hand over the receiver. "Their voices sound really similar!" I add before he can hit me again. I never really noticed this before, but … Iggy's really strong. As strong as Max or … Fang.

_Change the subject, Gazzy, change the subject …_

I don't want to think about Fang. We act like it's no big deal that that emo-haired, spineless, anti-social excuse for a bird-kid abandoned us, but he left a gaping hole in the Flock when he did. And Dylan can't patch up that hole, no matter how hard he tries.

Anyway.

"So, what were you calling for?" Iris is asking.

"I need to ask Liz something," I tell her. _No stammering this time! BOOM!_

"Oh. Well, you'll have to wait another … two minutes."

"Why?"

"She's in the middle of playing through one of her various piano pieces, and I do _not_ want to interrupt her. I know that from experience."

"Really?" I feel myself getting defensive. Did Liz hurt Iris? If she did, someone is going to get a serious talking-to next Wednesday, and it won't be from Iggy.

Speak of the devil, he's inquiring, "So?"

"Liz is practicing the piano," I say.

"Her best friend was just emotionally scarred for life, and she's practicing the piano? What kind of a person is she? …"

I tune him out.

There's a sigh on the other end. Even her sigh is melodious; it sounds like a flute decrescendo. "Yeah, really. The last time I tried to talk to her when she was in the middle of playing her Schubert, she kind-of overreacted. In a bad way. And by 'bad way', I mean, 'screaming, insulting me in German, slapping me, and not speaking to me for the rest of the day.'"

Inside, I feel like someone just ripped out my stomach (horrible, I know) but on the outside, I manage to stay calm. Well, except for the fact that my hand not holding the phone is clenched into a fist …

"I never knew Liz could be that violent," I remark, once again proud of myself for not stammering for an entire sentence. All that practicing in front of the bathroom mirror must've paid off …

Did I just say that?

Shit.

Scratch out the last twenty or so words, please.

Thank you.

Iris sighs again. "Never underestimate how angry my sister can get when her piano practice is disturbed. I think she got it from our dad."

Wait a second … idea!

_Gathering courage, gathering courage, gathering courage …_

"Iris?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to –"

"Oh, here's Liz. Liz, Gazzy's on the phone for you."

There's some static, and then a slightly annoyed, "Hi?"

"Shit," I mutter.

"What?" Iggy asks, taking a temporary reprieve from ranting.

"She didn't even let me finish asking her out," I moan.

My brother pats my shoulder awkwardly. "I know how it feels. Don't worry, little guy. Someday, she won't just let you finish, she'll say 'yes.'"

"In my dreams."

"Gaaaaaazzy?" I can picture Liz impatiently tapping her foot the way she does when it takes me too long to move out of the auditorium and into some new tech crew-related lesson.

"Sorry," I hurriedly apologize. "How's Ella?"

A sigh, oddly similar to Iris's, but somehow, not as … beautiful. "She's okay, I guess. As okay as anyone would be under the circumstances. After crying her eyes out, she went to sleep, curled up on my bed like a two-year-old."

Somehow, I imagine that Ella's eyes aren't the only wet ones right now…

"Liz, are you okay?"

There's no sobbing – Liz is too strong for that, even if she doesn't seem it – but there is some sniffling, kind-of like the sounds a dog makes when it has allergies. "I did this to her. I caused this to happen. How? How could I?"

"You did it for her," I remind her. "And Robbie was too short for Ella anyway, right?"

She laughs a little, though her heart's not in it. "True. Tell Iggy that Ella's fine and not to worry about her; he'll never manage to sleep if he worries."

"How did you know he forced me to call you?"

"I'm a writer. We know these things."

And with that, she hangs up.

I smile, shake my head in an expression of "Oh, what on Earth will we do with her?" and relay her message to Iggy.

When he hears that Ella's doing fine, he almost appears to get a couple years younger.

"Hey, did she say why Ella was so sad in the first place?" he questions me.

"Hmm? Yeah, she did. Robbie broke up with Ella."

Watching Iggy's face right now is like watching the sun rise after a thunderstorm.

Liz was right. Romeo _does_ like Juliet.

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Gazzy_

_Subject: What now?_

Okay, Ella and Robbie broke up. So now what do we do?

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Liz_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

Oh, that's easy. One word for you, Gazzy: Zap.

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

Zap?

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Liz_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

It's tradition at Mesa High. Two weeks after someone is dumped, the dumpee has to play Zap with his/her best friend (though, since Zap only affects singles, the friend usually doesn't get a name.) It's pretty simple, really.

It works like this:

The unfortunate Zap-ee has two things written on his/her hand by his/her friend; on the palm, a name, and on the back, a time. The Zap-ee has to not look at the name of the palm of his/her hand until that time. If he/she accomplishes not looking, good for him/her. If he/she does look … the Zap-ee has until that time to ask out the person whose name was written on his/her palm.

Zap is basically a fun way to get someone to ask out someone he/she hates or someone he/she likes but was too wimpy to ask out.

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

So … what does this have to do with Iggy and Ella?

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Liz_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

Simple, you dumpkoff. In two weeks, when I have to play Zap with Ella, I'll write Iggy's name on her hand. The way she plays Zap, she'll have to ask him out.

Your job is to make sure he says "yes."

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

Oh, he will, no question about that. You should've seen his face when I told him Ella and Robbie broke up.

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Liz_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

BOOM!

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

BOOM! Hey, Liz, what's Iris's favorite place in Mesa?

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Liz_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

Probably the movie theater … why?

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: What now?_

Oh, no reason …

* * *

><p><strong>A note on Ella's character, in case you didn't realize this: The way I write her, she acts confident, but she actually has no self esteem. That's why she breaks down really easily. (Like a certain Flock leader we all know and love to pair with Fang.)<strong>

**I saw Harry Potter Seven, Part Two twice in the past forty-eight hours. I think it could've been done better (the kiss wasn't as good as in the book, some funny bits were cut out, some things could easily be have made more accurate), but it did a good job in capturing the spirit of the book: depressing angst with a bit of hope and a lot of epicness that becomes euphoria near the end.**

**Also, Neville Longbotton is the next Chuck Norris.**

**For those who have seen it, you know that part where Neville runs across the burning bride? I was shouting, "RUN, NEVILLE, RUN!" when I watched it, and my friend told me that she wants that phrase on a t-shirt. What do you think? Would that make a good t-shirt?**

**Oh, and I have some lovely news for all of you wonderful readers: I'm going to be staying at home, not doing much for the next three weeks. Which means – no, not more/faster updates – that maybe I can finish writing this story ahead of time and we'll all be able to stop worrying about whether I'll actually get to the end of it.**

**Gazzy: Amazing, I'm sure.**

**Me: Isn't it?**

**Gazzy: The fact that I have a Harry Potter coloring book is much more amazing, though.**

**Me: You have a … wait … HEY! THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE PART OF LILAH'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT!**

**Gazzy: TOO LATE!**

**Me: GIVE IT BACK!**

**Gazzy: Why should I?**

**Me: SHE'LL DO PERVERTED THINGS TO YOU IF YOU DON'T!**

**Gazzy: Like …**

**Me: *bleeeeeeeeeeeeep***

**Gazzy: 0.o *hands over coloring book***

**Me: Reviews are loved!**


	7. Being Aggressive Makes Your Throat Hurt

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 7: Being Aggressive Makes Your Throat Hurt**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK:**

**"If you have the first sentence of the story but no idea of the rest of the story, just repeat the first line until something comes to you. It's how Winnie the Pooh writes his poetry, so it's guaranteed to work." – my dad (who thinks Winnie the Pooh is a genius for whatever reason)**

**"UMBRELLAS ARE FOR WIMPS!" – me**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This line: "****Iggy's grip on Ella tightens, and his glares to passers-by intensify until I think he might be trying to shoot lasers out of his eyes." One of the characters in X-Men, Scott/Cyclops, has the power to shoot lasers out of his eyes. He's pretty awesome.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:**_**NarniaPrincess21**_**(Again again.) (Someone, give this girl a medal!)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Redwall the Abridged Series (You should watch it. It's one of the things that inspired me to write humor.)**

**The title of this chapter is inspired by Kina Kalimari, my awesome beta. In the beta'd version of this chapter, she said that she loved that line (it's something Liz thinks near the end of the chapter) and I thought, well, why not name the chapter after it? So I did. Yay woohoo pasta. :)**

* * *

><p>"So," I announce over a lunch of pasta and garlic bread (the only decent lunch Mesa High serves).<p>

"So what?" Ella inquires. Only, she's got a piece of bread in her mouth, so it comes out more like, "Oh uh?"

"Sew buttons!" I exclaim, giggling at my own joke.

She swallows. "No, really, what?"

"It's been two weeks since Robbie broke up with you," I begin.

Wincing at the memory and groaning at the knowledge of what's coming next, my friend forks a piece of sauce-saturated pasta into her perfectly-lip-glossed mouth.

"… so that means it's time for …" I pause, waiting for some sort of dramatic, ominous, Mission-Impossible-like theme song to play.

Nothing does.

Shizzlesticks.

"…THE OFFICIAL GAME OF ZAP!"

I wait for applause, but none is forthcoming. Not even from the other girls sitting at the table with us, and they're _always_ up for a rousing game of Zap. I get no appreciation these days.

Ella, knowing she has no chance of escaping The Official Game of Zap holds out her palm.

I fiddle around in my navy blue pencil case for a minute, and my hand emerges grasping a bright red ballpoint pen. On the palm of Ella's hand, I write a name, and on the back of her hand, a time.

She turns her hand around so that she can read the time. "Five o'clock. Wow, Lizzy, you're being easy on me, aren't you?"

In most cases, five o'clock would be hard; six hours to not look at the palm of your hand. But the way Ella plays Zap, she always looks at the name immediately after I write it down. So, for her, the longer I give her, the more time she has to work up the courage to ask someone out (though she doesn't usually need it).

"Okay," Ella exclaims, "let's see who today's lucky contestant is!"

She opens her hand and peers at the name inked there. Then she closes her hand into a fist, shakes it around, opens it again, and glares at the name like she can make it disappear if she stares long enough. Finally, her expression of anger becomes one of shock.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

* * *

><p>That afternoon, on my way to jazz band, I watch as Ella marches up to Iggy, who's dropping his backpack next to the auditorium door. Confident as always, she immediately gets to the point without the stuttering and nervousness that comes to most people in this type of situation.<p>

"Do you want to go out with me?"

I expected Iggy to show some sort of emotion – surprise, annoyance, disbelief, maybe even happiness – at the proposal, but he doesn't. One of his eyebrows rises above the rim of his black sunglasses, and he tilts his head a little to the side like a confused puppy, but that's about it.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks her, his voice cool and bland.

Ella, on the other hand, is completely taken aback – not because he wants her to suggest a place to go, but because he didn't reject her. The flustered expression only lasts a second, though, and she's soon as confident as usual, maybe more. "What do you mean?" she counters.

"You asked if I wanted to go out with you," Iggy clarifies. "Go out where?"

My friend shrugs nonchalantly. "Anywhere is fine, I guess."

Her new boyfriend ponders the idea for a minute, then exclaims, " I know! There's a Green Day concert in Phoenix this Saturday. We could go to that. You like Green Day, right?"

"No," Ella says sarcastically. "I hate Green Day. That's why I own all of their albums and two Green Day t-shirts."

It's Iggy's turn to laugh, with his nice, full, throaty chuckle. "So, I'll look up what time it starts online and get a couple tickets?"

"Hey, Liz!" a trumpet-toting freshman hollers from the door of the band room. "You coming or what?"

"Coming, coming!" I yell back. I hurry off toward the cacophony of the kids warming up on their instruments, grinning at the success of my plan as I listen to the remainder of Ella and Iggy's conversation:

"I call driving."

"Oh, right, like I could drive even if I wanted to."

"Good point."

"Indeed. Would you like an eraser with that?"

* * *

><p><em>RING, RING. RING, RING.<em>

_Please pick up_, I pray, pacing anxiously around my room in black pajama bottoms covered with stars and an "E = F-flat: Einstein's Theory for Musicians" t-shirt. I nearly trip over my clarinet case, then think better of pacing and sit down on my bed, narrowly avoiding a pile of precariously stacked textbooks and library books.

Someone on the other end picks up. "Hello?"

I let out a sigh of relief. "Hi, is –"

"Ooh, let me guess!" the voice on the other end, one I identify as that of a young girl, interrupts. "I bet you're Ella, calling Iggy! He told us all about you and how you asked him out and how you're going to a concert this Saturday –"

_Oh, shit. She thinks I'm Ella. _"No," I say weakly. She doesn't hear me.

"– I think it's sooooo brave of you to ask him out, he's kinda scary sometimes, but sooooo romantic –"

"Um, I'm not –"

"– going to get married? Can I be the bridesmaid? Pleeeeaaase? I'd promise to be really helpful and not let Gazzy fart during the ceremony –"

"Could you please –"

"– I'm Nudge, Iggy's sister, by the way –"

So Iggy and Gazzy have a sister? They never mentioned her. Then again, I can sort of understand why …

"– pretty? I hope you're pretty, Iggy deserves a really pretty girlfriend. He's never had one before, you know –"

"I'M NOT ELLA!" I practically scream into the phone. Is this what Ella calls "being aggressive"? Well, it makes my throat hurt.

"Oh. You aren't?" Nudge seems subdued and disappointed on the other end. "Sorry."

I take a shaky breath. "No, I'm Liz," I explain. "I called to ask Gazzy something about …" … _need an excuse, need an excuse …_ "… tech crew."

"Sure, I'll get him. GAZZY! PHONE FOR YOU! Hey, how did you get this number?"

"Phone book?" Where else would I get a number? Well, from Gazzy himself, but this Nudge person doesn't need to know that.

"That's weird," she says. "We aren't in the phone book. Oh, here's Gazzy."

"Hey, Liz," Gazzy greets me. "How did the Zap game go?"

"Well …" I pause for suspense, hoping for ominous music. Unfortunately, my life just isn't important enough to have its own soundtrack. Damn. "How would you like to tail your brother and his new girlfriend at a Green Day concert?"

"BOOM!" There's a squeal and an "Ow!", then, "I went to happily punch the air and punched Nudge by accident. Oops."

I giggle. Gazzy _would_ accidentally punch Nudge. "Is she okay?" I asks.

"Yeah, but really pissed … oh God!" For a minute, all I hear are the sounds of running feet, heavy panting, and muted curses, then a door slams and Gazzy says, "Liz? You still there?"

"Yeah," I reply. "So, are you free this Saturday for the concert?"

"I'll have to ask Max …" _Who's Max?_ I wonder, but I don't say anything. "How much are tickets?"

"Oh, don't worry about that; I have two," I reassure him. "My older brother Serge was going to come with me, but it turns out he has a huge English paper to write, so he can't come."

"BOOM! I mean, it's too bad that he can't come, but …"

"It's no big deal. If I went with him, I'd probably have to hang out with his friends, which isn't all that great."

"Oh."

"The concert starts at seven," I inform him, "and Phoenix is forty-five minutes away, but we should get there early, so I'll pick you up at six?"

"Sure."

He gives me his address, and we hang up (but not before gloating over the success of our genius plan).

Saturday is going to be awesome.

* * *

><p>When Gazzy told me he lived in a small house, I never imagined that he lived in a ... a hovel.<p>

I'm sitting in my dad's car, a sliver four-doored Honda Accord, on the block behind Iggy's and Gazzy's house. If you can call it a house, that is. It has four brown clay walls, sure, but there's only half a straw roof and two windows. The only door, a white-washed, wooden thing, is cracked and has no handle, and the entire house looks like it could probably fit into my living room.

Not only is the house itself much less than desirable, the neighborhood it is in is the worst you can get in Mesa. This is the sort of place mothers warn their kids to never, ever go into, no matter how much candy a "nice man" offers you. Hookers, drug dealers, and drunks frequent the area at all hours of the day and night. All buildings are in the same shape as Iggy's and Gazzy's house or worse. Even the sky seems darker here, like some sort of higher power is punishing the neighborhood for its horrible-ness. (Other than that, though, it's a nice night – warm, but not too warm with no clouds and a bit of a breeze.)

Here I am, bored to death in this _lovely_ neighborhood, waiting for Gazzy. Then again, it's not his fault that he's late; he has to wait for Iggy to leave before he can. And Iggy is taking his sweet time leaving. Ella's bright red, used Toyota (a sixteenth-birthday present from her mom) has been parked in front of the house for the past five minutes, and the happy couple still isn't gracing it with their presence yet. I can hear their conversation now:

"– why do you live in such a horrible place?" Ella is asking.

"Why do you have to be so short?" Iggy retorts.

"I am not short!" she says. "I'm unusually not tall."

"Well, I'm not tall; I'm unusually not short."

Their conversation is cut off for a minute as some drunken/high/superbly insane idiot shouts, "AAAH! MY SKIN, IT BUUUUURNS!" Then, I hear Iggy inquiring, "– you wearing?"

"Why do you want to know?" Ella wonders.

"_Stop wondering and get in the car!_" I want to scream, but I don't. _Patience, Lizzy, patience,_ I remind myself sternly.

"I can't see you, but I want to be able to picture you in my head," Iggy is explaining with a shrug.

"Oh. Okay," his girlfriend replies. "Well ... I'm wearing a red, spaghetti-string tank top, a black miniskirt, and black high-heeled boots. I've got my hair down, only I'm wearing a headband. Hmm, what else ... oh! I'm wearing a necklace with a pendant in the shape of a pair of wings."

Iggy mumbles something to himself that I think contains the words "wings" and "interesting" as I glare at Ella, shunning her for her atrocious description abilities. Her tank top isn't simply _red_; it's the shade of a ripe cherry. Her skirt isn't simply _black_; it's incredibly dark gray, with little pleats along the bottom that swish when she walks, sort-of like the uniform skirt of an anime schoolgirl. She neglected to describe how high her boots are; they reach almost to her knees. (I've been absurdly jealous of those boots ever since she bought them last Christmas.) And she didn't even mention the make-up she's wearing: black eye shadow, lipstick and some sort of powder on her cheeks that makes her look a bit like a vampire. The weirdest thing about her right now is how her outfit matches Iggy's typical black-jeans-and-t-shirt get-up completely, like they planned their outfits beforehand (which is about as likely as vampires that sparkle – oh, wait. That happened in Twilight. I guess anything's possible now ... scary thought.)

Anyway, my get-in-the-car-right-now-or-I'll-kill-you-and-then-bury-you-and-then-dig-you-up-and-clone-you-and-then-kill-your-clones stare must be working on the mostly-happy couple, because they climb into Ella's car, shut the door with a _SLAM_, and drive off in a cloud of dust that leaves a homeless beggar coughing.

_Gotta be dramatic all the time, don't you, Ella?_ I think fondly, advancing my own car until I'm directly in front of the Griffiths house.

"HEY, GAZZY! YOU HAVE ONE JEOPARDY-THEME-SONG-REPETITION TO GET OUT HERE BEFORE I LEAVE WITHOUT YOU!"

* * *

><p><strong>One of my many goals in life is to own a pair of bad-ass black high-heeled boots. Please tell me I'm not the only one.<strong>

**Anyway, I'm really sorry the chapter was so late today, guys. ;;**

**(It's a bit difficult to get onto a computer when you're spending the day at an amusement park with two of your friends. Before you ask, yes, it was fun; we did awesome things such as fighting with foam swords, discussing crack Hetalia pairings, singing _Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows_ and _The Stereotype Song_ at the tops of our lungs, role-playing as England, France, and Italy from Hetalia, disturbing random passers-by, shouting "FOR SPARTA!" and "VODKA!" as we went off water slides, lurking in the DC comics section of the store, and almost being hit by lightning. :D)**

**Reviews are loved!**

**Also, a random question: what sounds better (as a pairing name): APH or Frying Pangle?**


	8. The Floor is Up

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 8: The Floor is Up**

**RANDOM COMMENT OF THE WEEK:**

**"Why are you laughing?" "I just heard your dad say, 'And then you've got Vladimir Putin without a shirt on, bending pins or something.'" "Wait, _what_?" – my friend Katie and me**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: Liz's "get-in-the-car-right-now-or-I'll-kill-you-and-then-bury-you-and-then-dig-you-up-and-clone-you-and-then-kill-your-clones stare." "IF YOU RATS DON'T GET INTO SHAPE, I'LL KILL YOU AND THEN BURY YOU AND THEN DIG YOU UP AND CLONE YOU AND THEN KILL YOUR CLONES!" is a famous quote from Episode Six of Redwall the Abridged Series.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:_ Kage-Egak _(A.k.a. my friend Michi, with whom I would be very disappointed if she didn't find the reference)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Hetalia**

***Insert creative and/or funny A/N here.***

* * *

><p>"Greetings and salutations," Liz says as I plop down on the passenger's seat of her dad's car, bouncing a little on the fake leather. "What's up?"<p>

I shrug. "Not much."

Suddenly, I'm being whacked on the head with one of Liz's blue plastic flip-flops. "Bad Gazzy," she reprimands me. I feel like a dog who just destroyed his owner's favorite pair of shoes. "You're supposed to say 'the sun,' 'the clouds,' 'the sky,' 'the ceiling,' 'the sevvies,' –"

"The sevvies?"

"Don't ask – or 'the moon,' depending on where you are and what time of day it is."

… Huh?

Wait.

"_The ceiling is up."_

Oh, I get it now! That's kind-of clever, actually.

"Now, let's try that again." Liz starts the car and we begin to crawl out of the neighborhood as she speaks. "What's up?

"Uh … not mu – I mean, the floor."

"Ooh, good one!"

For thirty or so Jeopardy-theme-song-repetitions, there is silence – not awkward silence; more the kind of companionable silence that occurs when no words need to be said – as we slowly coast through Mesa in Liz's dad's silver Honda, avoiding traffic, stoplights, and pedestrians who chose not to use their brains. As we finally reach the highway, Liz breathes a sigh of relief.

"Are you as excited as I am?" she asks me.

"No," I say sarcastically. "I have _nothing_ to be excited for. At all."

She grins. "Touché."

"What does that mean, anyway?" I've always wanted to know.

"I'm not entirely sure; it's just something you say when someone else says something clever. I think it comes from fencing terms or something like that …"

"Oh. I'll Google it when I get home, then."

"Hey, did you know that there's a religion called Googlism that believes that Google is the closest thing mankind has to a god?"

The conversation continues like this for the half hour it takes us to drive to the field where the concert is being held.

* * *

><p>The field is large, grassy, and rectangular – probably a soccerfootball/lacrosse/whatever field when not being used for special events – with a stage set up near the back. The stage is made up of a swimming-pool-sized white screen hanging behind a long, gray platform. On the platform are a couple of mics, drum kit pieces, cords, amps, some random tech equipment, and what is probably a keyboard, though I can't tell from where we're standing.

Even though the concert isn't supposed to start for another twenty minutes, the field is absolutely packed. Well, not as packed as a Russian subway (where they have guys whose job is pushing excess people off when they can't possibly fit any more on) but still packed enough to make my claustrophobic, bird-kid self uncomfortable.

As if I'm not already jumpy from the anticipation of seeing one of my favorite bands live in concert.

I mean, I've been to concerts with the Flock before, but those were always ones that Nudge or Angel dragged us to, usually involving stupid pop music.

Anyway, back to the description.

It's after dusk, but not yet twilight, so the sky has that pretty darkish blue color that reminds me of the ocean on a cloudy day. A couple stars are out to watch the concert along with a whole lot of water vapor. Damned humidity making me regret wearing jeans and sneakers. Of course, Liz, who probably looked up the weather beforehand, is wearing a knee-length skirt, a tour t-shirt she bought from the Green Day store set up near the entrance, and flip-flops. It's too hot out and it's only getting hotter as more and more people arrive.

All the people isn't necessarily a bad thing, though. With so many people in the same place at the same time with the same love for badass rock and alternative songs, you can practically _taste_ the excitement in the air. Lighting a match would probably cause the air to catch fire, that's how much there is. I wonder what putting a bomb in here would do. It would probably cause a very huge, very epic explosion.

Liz looks over at me. "Don't do it, Gazzy," she says.

How can she tell what I'm thinking?

"It's because I'm a writer. We can do these things," she answers.

What.

She simply smiles (a bit more creepily than usual) and goes back to excitedly bouncing and fangirl squealing. I consider joining her, but decide not to. That would be way too un-manly … Well, okay, maybe I will bounce. Once. Or twice. Or five times. Shut up.

* * *

><p><em>The Eight Stages of the Eager Fangirl at the Concert of Her Favorite Band:<em>

_1. Normalcy_ ("Wow, this place sure is crowded. I wonder how many people are here. Hey, did you hear about the new Harry Potter website thingy, what's it called, Pottermore?")

_2. Realization _("Oh my God, I just realized. WE'RE AT A GREEN DAY CONCERT! AAH!")

_3. Excitement _("ONLY FIVE MINUTES UNTIL I GET TO SEE BILLIE, MIKE, AND TRE IN THE FLESH! AAAAH THIS IS SO EXCITING!"

_4. Boredom _("This is starting to get boring … Hey, Gazzy, want to play the Random Game?")

_5. Annoyance _("Why haven't they started playing yet? The concert was supposed to start two minutes ago.")

_6. Anger _("I SWEAR, IF YOU GUYS DON'T GET YOUR ARSES OUT HERE IN FIVE MINUTES THEN YOU WILL BE SORRY! REALLY, REALLY SORRY! SO SORRY YOU'LL WISH YOU COULD LOSE ALL OF YOUR MEMORY! I MIGHT EVEN STEAL YOUR PANTS AND CASTRATE YOU WITH A FRYING PAN! _A FNICKING FRYING PAN_!")

_7. Begging _("Come on, guys, show up … please … in, like, ten minutes at the latest … I won't kill you or anything, just please show up …")

_8. Reward _("AAH THEY SHOWED UP THIS IS AMAZING AND SO TOTALLY WORTH IT!")

* * *

><p>When Tre strides on to the stage, there is a roar from the crowd louder than that of a ferocious tyrannosaurus rex. When Mike strides on to the stage, there is a roar from the crowd louder than the "CHIGI!" of an Italian whose hair curl was just pulled. When Billie strides on to the stage, there is a roar from the crowd louder than that of a fangirl whose favorite character has just died. When the first few chords of "21st Century Breakdown" begin to echo around the now-dark field, there is a roar from the crowd louder than that of an enraged Maximum Ride.<p>

And when the stage lights come on and the singing starts … Well, just _thinking_ about that one gives me a headache.

The concert from that point on consists of people screaming, people pumping their fists, people waving their arms, people bouncing up and down in time with the music, people clapping, people video-taping, people trying to get closer to the stage … people everywhere I can see, hear, and smell … an ocean of people that I'm drowning in. It's a claustrophobic's nightmare, basically. But even though I, as a bird-kid, am very claustrophobic, I don't actually mind all that much. There's an amazing feeling that comes with being surrounded by people who are all having, as Green Day would say, the time of their lives. We're all here, we're all loving every second of this, and we all wish it would never end.

If only Iris and the rest of the Flock were here with me, I could stay at this concert forever.

Every so often, I catch a glimpse of Iggy and Ella through the crowd; Liz and I picked a spot a little ways behind them for that purpose. I notice them clapping during "Know Your Enemy". I observe them singing along to the lyrics, eyes closed, during "Boulevard of Broken Dreams". I watch them grab hands in order to avoid being separated in the surging crowd during "Holiday"_._ I spot them slowly swaying, Iggy's arm around Ella during "21 Guns". I discern them slow-dancing, her head on his shoulder, during "Time of Your Life"_._

And, during "American Idiot", the last song Green Day plays, I hear them shouting the lyrics to "Venetian Idiot" as loud as they possibly can. Liz and I grin and join in. Soon enough, a crowd of people around us are singing "Venetian Idiot", too. By the last chorus, Billie has noticed and is helping us out by yelling into his microphone:

"_Isn't this a stupid kind of tension,_

_All throughout the stubborn city,_

_Where everything is never okay?_

_Fighting and arguing dreams of tomorrow_

_We're not the ones who're meant to follow_

_And that's enough to fall in love._"

It's pretty much the best thing I have ever experienced (besides maybe that one huge explosion Iggy and I created with twenty sticks of dynamite, a rubber band, and some Bacon.)

* * *

><p>After the encore, the second encore, the bowing, and the "NO DON'T LEAVE I LOVE YOU!"s have finally passed, Liz and I sadly make our way to the parking lot of a grocery store across the street where we left the car. It takes us nearly half an hour and an unhealthy bit of screeching to actually find the car, but when we do, there is silence. It's a depressed sort of silence, like the silence that happens right after something you've eagerly anticipated for months is over and you don't know what to look forward to any more.<p>

To break the silence, I say, "Wow. That was really cool."

"Really cool doesn't cover it," Liz replies.

"It was better than _Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail_."

"That's more like it. Hey, did you see any Iggy-and-Ella-being-cute-and-or-in-love moments?"

"They _were_ slow-dancing during 'Time of Your Life' …"

"Really? BOOM!"

"BOOM!"

* * *

><p>Around 10:30 P.M., Liz drops me off with a high-five, a reminder not to let Iggy know I was at the concert, and a warning that she'll make sure Iris never speaks to me again if I don't tell Liz <em>exactly<em> what Iggy and Ella say and do when she drops him off.

Well, I'd rather not get on Liz's bad side, so I position myself in a kitchen chair directly underneath one of the front windows (which is, conveniently enough, open a crack to let the cool night breeze in). Thankfully, it's late enough that I don't have to worry about Max, Nudge, or Angel quizzing me about what I'm doing.

I don't have to wait long.

At 10:50 P.M. (according to the kitchen clock), Ella's bright red Toyota pulls up at the front steps of our house. There are two loud slams as Iggy and Ella, smiling and laughing about something, climb out of the car. I notice with interest that she's wearing his hoodie over her dress. Both of them look happier than the daughter of a war veteran who sees her father for the first time in years. In fact, I can't help but smile myself as I hear Ella's musical laugh and see Iggy's goofy grin. But their happiness seems to recede like the ocean at low tide as they reach the ancient, dark-green door and stand on opposite sides of it, staring at each other.

Ella is the first to break the silence. "Tonight was … amazing. Thank you."

Wow, Ella said thank you to someone? The world is going to explode from sheer astonishment. (It does that sometimes.)

"Any time," Iggy replies.

"I don't want this night to end," she says sincerely and Iggy perks up like a puppy awaiting a treat, "but …" – his face falls – "… my mom will kill me if I'm not home in ten minutes."

My brother sighs, and then his face seems to harden a little, like he's gathering courage to do something he's never done before. His voice is husky and so low I can barely hear it when he tells Ella, "Before you go, you owe me something."

"What?" she inquires, but instead of answering, Iggy crosses the space between them in one long stride and … hesitates, unsure of himself. He's less than half a foot away from Ella, whose eyes widen as she discerns what's happening. Slowly, ever so slowly, they lean in, his head angled down, hers angled up, and …

BOOM!

(There isn't an actual boom, but there should be one. It would make everything way more awesome.)

They're kissing.

"BOOM!" I whisper, doing a little happy dance in my seat. I can't wait to tell Liz about this; she'll be thrilled.

…

Oh, God.

I sound like the Gossip Girl or something.

Anyway, Iggy and Ella are still kissing. They seem to be really enjoying themselves too – not that I'm much of an expert in this sort of thing. I'm really tempted to grab Angel's camera and start videotaping … but if I did that, they'd probably boil me alive in molten lava or something. Better safe than sorry.

This is a valuable learning experience, too. Look at all I'm learning: how to get a girl to kiss you, how to kiss without needing to breathe, how to tug on a girl's hair in a way that causes her to make weird but kind of intriguing gasping noises … how to slide your tongue into a girl's mouth … how to slide your hands up a girl's dress … how to slap a boy when he slides his hands up your dress without permission … how to escape to your car looking like you want to kill something … how to drive at race-car levels … how to trudge into your house looking like you just lost everything you love in the world …

Oh, wait.

Things aren't going quite so well anymore.

Well, shit.

* * *

><p><strong>CUE THE OMINOUS MUSIC!<strong>

**Geez, and you all thought they were actually going to stay together.**

**(No, don't worry; they'll make up.)**

**(Eventually.)**

**Reviews are loved!**


	9. Lowlife Scum

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 9: Low-life Scum  
><strong>

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK:**

**"I think without schadenfreude, there would be no freude." - John Green (the author, not one of Michi's relatives)  
><strong>

**"OH, MEIN GOTT. MUSLIMS CAN'T EAT BACON. THAT'S WHY THEY'RE TERRORISTS. IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!" - me  
><strong>

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This: "When Mike strides on to the stage, there is a roar from the crowd louder than the "CHIGI!" of an Italian whose hair curl was just pulled." One of the characters in Hetalia is Romano, or South Italy. Whenever someone pulls his hair curl (a.k.a. erogenous zone), he shouts, "CHIGI!" very loudly and head-butts whoever pulled it in the stomach. (It's usually Spain. xD)  
><strong>

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: _Sushirox5678_ (Virtual pasta for her!)  
><strong>

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: One Piece (Even though I haven't watched more than one episode of it, I know enough about it that I can make a reference to it. Why? My anime-obsessed friends who ranted about it for a couple months in my presence, of course.)**

* * *

><p>The phone is ringing.<p>

I probably should pick it up. It's probably Gazzy. He probably has news about what happened when Ella dropped Iggy off. It's probably something that will mean all of our planning and scheming is over and done with.

… Yeah, I really _should _pick it up …

But it's also so comfortable, the way I'm lying in bed right now. And I really want to finish the chapter in my book – they're just about to kiss, I can just feel it.

I glare at the phone, a silver rectangle of a contraption blasting out the first bars of Für Elise, organ style. If it was a couple inches closer, I could just grab it. Why does it have to be sitting there, barely out of my reach? Why do I have to get up to grab it? Why can't I just magically summon it over?

… That's actually a pretty good idea, now that I think of it.

I try using the Force, reaching out as far as I can. Apparently, I'm no Yoda.

I try shouting "_Accio phone_!" I guess you need a wand to do magic.

I try stretching my arm so that it will be a few inches longer. Unfortunately, I haven't eaten any Gum-Gum Fruits.

"Oh, screw this," I mutter, sitting up, walking over to the side of the bed on my knees, and snatching the phone from its perch atop my stack of library books. The book I was reading until a Jeopardy-theme-song-repetition or so ago falls into the crack between the bed and the wall. _Shit_.

"Hello?" I grumble into the phone.

No answer.

"Helloooo? Anybody hoooome?"

Once again, no answer.

"Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo _doo_ doo doo doo doo doo …" *****

The phone-answering gods are still not favoring me today.

"Go burn in the deepest, darkest pits of a Russian sewer system, whoever you are!"

There's a long _BEEP_.

Oh. It must be one of those endlessly irritating just-checking-to-make-sure-your-phone-is-working automated calls.

Not that knowing what it is makes me like it any more.

"LAME EXCUSE FOR A TOAD!"

I poke the "end call" button violently.

The phone rings. Again.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS HOLY _IS IT_?"

"… Liz?"

"Oh. Um. Hi, Gazzy."

He laughs nervously. "If you're already mad at God-knows-what, I really don't want to tell you what I'm about to tell you."

That can't be a good sign. I sigh, hope for the not-worst, and say, "Is it really that bad?"

"Well, they're not dead …"

"Always a plus," I deadpan. "But seriously, what happened?"

"Uh … well …"

"I'm in the middle of an _excellent_ part in my book, and if you don't tell me what happened within the next thirty seconds, I may have to steal your testosterone."

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you!"

"So?"

"They … ah … they … um … kissed."

_BOOM!_

If this story was happening in a cliché book, I would probably ask him, "They _what_?"; he would repeat "They kissed." more loudly, and I would go on an excited rant while Gazzy tried (and failed) to interrupt me in order to explain why Ella and Iggy's relationship is not at a good point in its life. But, fortunately enough, this isn't a cliché book. In fact, I have a cliché book I want to get back to reading. So I'm going to get to the point and make this as quick and painless as possible for both of us.

"And why exactly is that a bad thing?" I demand.

"Well … Iggy … sorta … uh …"

"I'm waiting."

"… put-his-hand-up-her-shirt."

Well, that _is_ unfortunate. Ella had a not-particularly-enjoyable experience last year with a boyfriend who tried to rape her (he didn't succeed, of course; never underestimate the power of a naked woman with a garden hose) and ever since then, she's been really paranoid about guys trying to do things to her body that she doesn't want them to. It's possible that she'll never forgive Iggy for this. Well, shit.

I don't tell the boy on the other end of the phone any of that, though. Instead, I simply say, "Ah. I see."

"Yeah."

"Indeed."

"Should we … ah … try to do anything?"

"Not right now. There's a chance –" – translation: one chance in a million – "– that they'll make up soon, but if they don't, then we may have to make a new plan."

Actually, we should probably make a new plan _right now_, but I'm too lazy to think of anything. And the book is _calling_ to me …

"Okay. Yeah. Sure. Bye." Gazzy hangs up.

I sigh sadly. All our hard work for nothing. Oh, well. There will be times to think about that later. For now …

I pick up the book and grin. "Alone at last."

* * *

><p>"ELLA!"<p>

My friend and I pause in our heated debate about which Fullmetal Alchemist character would win in a fight, Roy Mustang or Riza Hawkeye, and swivel around to see Larissa attacking us with what looks like a photograph, followed by several of our friends. (Okay, not _friend _friends. More like people-we-sit-with-during-lunch-and-hang-out-with-during-study-halls-but-never-see-outside-of-school friends.)

Now, if you aren't familiar with Larissa Morgans, she's one of those tall, tanned, blond-haired, blue-eyed, relatively pretty airheads who thinks they're the queen of the school. The thing that girls like her have never managed to figure out is that school isn't a monarchy; it's a commune, with the principal as the dictator, the teachers and staff as the Communist Party, the most-liked kids as the aristocrats with connections to the Communist Party, and everyone else as the workers. Unfortunately, their ignorance never seems to prevent Larissa and others like her from using their connections to get the workers to do what they want.

Which is what Larissa is doing right now.

As she stomps closer to us, I can make out the picture she's holding: it's from the concert two days ago. Iggy has his arm around Ella, and both of them are grinning like they're the happiest people in the world (which they probably were). When my best friend sees it herself, she smiles a little, like she's re-living a tiny bit of that night.

Then, of course, Larissa has to ruin her moment.

"_What_ is the meaning of _this_?"

"The meaning of _that_ is none of your business," Ella retorts.

"It is my business if my friend is dating low-life scum," the wannabe-queen shoots back.

My friend bristles like a furious feline. Hmm, so she's still insulted when someone insults her former boyfriend. A definite good sign. "Do you really take me for someone stupid enough to date low-life scum?"

"So, what, you think he isn't low-life scum?"

"No, I don't think that at all."

"So why the hell are you dating him?"

"DID YOU NOT HEAR WHAT I JUST SAID?" Ella's face is the color of a ripe tomato, and not from embarrassment. "I DUMPED THAT PIECE OF GARBAGE INTO THE TRASH CAN WHERE HE BELONGS!"

"Ah, I see," Larissa says, smiling sweetly. "I'm so proud of you, Ella."

Ella grins back. "Thanks. Hey, where did you get that picture?"

"Well, I got it from my sister, who got it from her boyfriend, who got it from his friend, who got it from his cousin, who got it from his girlfriend, who got it from God-knows-where …"

"Can I have it, by any chance? It'll make good fuel for the bonfire my family is having this weekend."

"Sure, that'd be, like, totally awesome."

They begin walking to class – the warning bell is going to ring any second now – while I simply shake my head in amazement. A minute ago, they were screaming at each other, and now, they're chatting like best friends. It's no wonder guys find us girls so confusing.

* * *

><p><em>To: <em>_Gazzy_

_From: __Liz_

_Subject: arghfajajkljklsfjklafjk_

It's been two weeks, and they haven't spoken to each other except for when it's completely and totally necessary at play practices. Do I need to tell you that this is not good?

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Gazzy_

_Subject: RE: arghfajajkljklsfjklafjk_

No, you don't. Just because I'm in all low-level classes doesn't mean I'm stupid. (It just means I'm lazy.)

Anyway, I know it's not good. What do we do about it, though?

* * *

><p><em>From: <em>_Liz_

_Subject: RE: arghfajajkljklsfjklafjk_

I think we should probably confront them; see if we can get them to admit they like each other and/or apologize to each other and/or go out again …

* * *

><p>"Ella, what's wrong?" I ask my friend the next day at lunch.<p>

"Nothing's wrong," she replies, staring at her sandwich.

"Well, clearly, something _is_ wrong," I say. "You haven't said five words to me all week, I've seen storm clouds brighter than your face, and now you won't even look at me when I talk to you. It's like someone died around here."

My friend looks up from her lunch to glare at me as if I'd just accused her of being an Edward Cullen fangirl. "Okay, _now _I'm looking at you. And how do you know I'm not just tired from pulling an all-nighter for that stupid English essay?"

"Because when you get tired, you get really hyper," I remind her.

"Oh, yeah. Right. Dang you for having such a great memory."

"So, is it something Iggy-related?"

She gasps. "How did you know?"

I count off the reasons on my fingers. "You went on a date with him last Saturday, but you didn't tell me anything about what happened. You ignored him at play practice yesterday. And there's a drawing of Iggy hanging on a gallows with arrows through his head and a chainsaw up his … vital region on your binder. You know, you shouldn't be so surprised that I figured it out, Ella. If I wasn't good at using logical reasoning to figure things out, would I be taking pre-calculus eighth period?"

Ella sighs, her equivalent of waving a white flag. "Iggy is a perverted dog," she complains as I mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of ranting sure to follow. "Actually, he's not just any perverted dog. He's a de-evolutionized monkey with the brains of a toad that's been stomped on so many times it's completely lost the ability to function normally. He should be put into a laboratory and studied for how people can possibly survive when they're incredibly stupid, that's how stupid he is. He's not fit to lick the dirt off of Billie Joe Armstrong's boots!"

"Is _anyone_ fit to lick the dirt off of Billie Joe Armstrong's boots?" I interrupt.

"Touché."

"That was a pretty impressive rant," I compliment her. "So, what did he do that was so bad?"

"Exist."

"Okay, besides the obvious."

"Well … everything was going great, and then he had to ruin it!"

"And by 'everything was going great,' you mean …"

"We managed not to argue for an entire ten minutes!" Ella exclaims, grinning proudly.

I gasp. "Division by zero just became possible!"

"I know, right?" she says. "Anyway. And then … well … I dropped him off … and … uh …"

"And?" I prompt, even though I already know what she's going to say.

"He kissed me."

"Ella, that's great! What's so horrible about it?"

"Well, it wasn't that _bad_, exactly," she admits. "It's just that, well, he has zero experience. He kisses like a wet, slobbery dog. And then he tried to _shove_ his tongue into my mouth, and he pushed his hand up my shirt, and, God, I can't just _let_ him do that, can I?" As Ella talks, her face turns red and her fists clench, as if I need any more proof about how angry she is.

I sigh and say, "No, I guess you can't." But before she can concede victory, I add, "You could give him a chance to apologize, though."

At this, my friend directs her anger at me. Which is, quite honestly, more than a little frightening. Ella would be a difficult opponent in a battle of glaring.

"He's low-life scum," she hisses, "and nothing can change that."

_Well,_ _I guess there isn't any chance of getting her to apologize to him._

* * *

><p>I'm scribbling into a composition notebook, lying on my bed with my feet on my pillow and my head where my feet should be when the phone rings.<p>

_Shit_, I think, swiftly righting myself, tapping my lamp until it turns off, and sliding my notebook and pen under the pillow. Writing at twelve-thirty A.M., when you're supposed to be asleep, certainly has its disadvantages.

The stairs creak as someone walks up them, then the door to my bedroom opens a crack.

"Lizzy? Are you awake?" my mom stage-whispers.

I grunt, which she must have translated to "I wish I was, thanks _so_ much for bothering me," because the door opens all the way.

When my eyes adjust to the blinding light pouring in from the hallway, I ask, "Whaddyawant?"

"Ella's dad showed up," she explains.

Before you can say "Insert long name or stupid proverb here," I'm standing in the center of my room, all pretenses of sleepiness gone.

"She can come over, right?" I inquire.

My mom sighs. "Of course. She'll sneak out again, I presume?"

"Yeah, if she needed us to come get her, she would've said so."

"Well, you better get downstairs and wait for her. I'm going to sleep. Try not to stay up too late, okay?" she says with one of those typical you'll-be-sorry-if-you-don't-do-what-I-tell-you stares.

I nod obediently, we both say goodnight, and I head to the front yard to wait for my best friend.

My mom shouldn't have worried; when Ella shows up, she's exhausted and has obviously been crying. I give her a hug, we go upstairs to my room, and she falls asleep almost immediately on one side of my bed.

"I wish that asshole would just leave Ella and her mom alone," I whisper into the darkness, before falling asleep myself.

* * *

><p><strong>* She's singing the Jeopardy Theme Song here, in case you couldn't tell.<strong>

**So, I'm at the beach right now, at a family reunion with my cousins. It's a bit awkward, since the two closest in age to me are ... well ... the opposite of me in social status, geekiness/lack of it, that sort of thing. The anime/manga/book/fanfiction references that I'm constantly making don't help.**

**But I got to see two naked kids between the ages of one and five today, so it's all good. 8D**

**(No, not really. Just kidding. ... Don't look at me like that!)**

**Also, the best things to shout while you are boogie boarding (at least for me) are: "FOR CANADA!", "FLYING MINT BUNNY!", and "FOR ENGLAND'S EYEBROWS!" I tried "FOR PRUSSIA!", "FOR THE DAMN TOMATOES!", and "PASTA!", but they didn't work as well. Prussia and the Italies didn't like me today, I guess. :(**

**Review. Because Nathaniel, my imaginary frying pan, said so.**

**(Yes, I have an imaginary frying pan. Shut up.)  
><strong>


	10. Fist Rudely Introduced to Someone's Nose

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 10: A Fist is Rudely Introduced to Someone's Nose**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK (YES, THERE ARE FOUR):**

**"Come over here, please. I want to introduce you to someone very special to me. His name is Gilbert, he is my trench, and he is very,****_very_****awesome." – me**

**"When you're thirteen, are you still going to take off your clothes and point at your butt in front of guys?" "Yes." – two of my cousins**

**"How many penises do you have?" "A hundred." – me and my little cousin**

**"Don't forget to breathe." – one of my uncles**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This: "****I try stretching my arm so that it will be a few inches longer. Unfortunately, I haven't eaten any Gum-Gum Fruits." In One Piece, Luffy ate a Gum-Gum Fruit, and it gave him the power to stretch his limbs to obscenely long lengths.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:**_**DelinquentGroundhog369**_** (But he/she/it is an anonymous reviewer, so I couldn't give him/her/it his/her/its prize! What? That reminds me of something I've always been curious about: how do you anonymous reviewers keep track of when the stories you like are updated? Do you just check all the stories you like once day? Doesn't that get tiring?)**

** THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (and it's really easy, so if someone doesn't get it … *takes out frying pan*)**

**Okay. So. This chapter is late. I'M SORRY! FEEL FREE TO YELL AT ME/WHACK ME/THROW THINGS AT ME/LOCK ME IN A ROOM WITH RUSSIA FOR A FEW HOURS/WHATEVER.**

**(My excuse was that I was at a family reunion – hence the many random comments of the week – all last week, and thus was late emailing this chapter to Kina, and thus she was late emailing it back to me.)**

**The family reunion was quite awesome, thanks for asking. There was much embarrassment by older relatives, biting of mosquitoes, building of sandcastles, building of walls and trenches to protect aforementioned sandcastles, shouting epic war cries while boogie boarding, lying in hot tubs, reading of fan fiction, writing of fan fiction, convincing a certain younger cousin of mine that she is a girl, not a boy, walking along the beach at six A.M. … et cetra. :D**

* * *

><p>"– and so I was like, 'So then you're a pike of hippopotamus barf!' and he was like, 'Oh, you did <em>not<em> just call me that!' and I was like, 'Oh, yes, I _did_ just call you that!' and then the teacher –"

Nudge's story about the battle of insults she had with an annoying kid in her Spanish class is interrupted when the front door slams open. She, Max, and I look up from our respective piles of homework to see Iggy tramping through the kitchen, a stack of pizza boxes balanced on his head.

"Hey, Ig," I greet him.

He grunts and shrugs, very cave-man-esque.

"Awesome, everyone's here, so we can finally have dinner!" Max exclaims from her perch atop the kitchen counter. "Gazzy, would you like to do the honors?"

"I would be honored, ma'am," I reply with a little bow, then yell at the top of my lungs, "FREE FOOD!"

About half a minute later, the contents of the pizza boxes are divided onto seven paper plates, one held by each Flock member (including Total). I'm sitting at the kitchen table; Nudge and Total are sitting _on_ the table; Max is leaning back against the counter; Dylan is trying not to let a cardboard box collapse under his weight; Iggy and Angel are sharing Iggy's couch/bed. For ten minutes or so, there's silence except for the sounds of chomping. Then Max sighs contentedly, leans back a little more, and begins the dreaded nightly torture commonly known as "dinner conversation."

"So. How was everybody's day?" she inquires.

"Ohmigod, it was horrible! First we had a sub in math who was _totally_ mean and wouldn't let me talk to Sarah, which was, like, horrible because I had to ask her about that sale at Abercrombie and –"

Do I even have to say who's talking?

Yeah. I thought not.

"Yes, Nudge, we know," Max interrupts her. "You already told us."

"Several times," I add.

The fifteen-year-old terror-on-wings glares at me – why me, but not Max? The world is so unfair. "Iggy doesn't know."

"But I don't think Iggy cares," I retort, "so …"

"Sure, he cares! Don't you, Ig?"

Iggy grunts and shrugs, not looking up from his pizza.

"How was play practice, Iggy?" I ask, eager to direct the conversation away from Nudge.

Another grunt. Another shrug.

"Have you and Ella stopped ignoring each other yet?" Nudge questions.

I silently thank the Powers That Be that the prospect of new Iggy-and-Ella-related gossip has temporarily distracted my annoying sister enough that she doesn't feel the need to tell the story of her school day for the fourth time as Iggy once again grunts and – oh, you get the idea. Just assume that Iggy grunts and shrugs every time somebody talks to him, okay?

"You're not very talkative today, are you, Ig?" Max observes.

"Yeah," Angel agrees, nodding her angelic golden head. "It's like he's trying to be emo."

Dylan, Nudge, Angel, Total, and I look at each other. Dylan mouths, "One, two, three …" and after three, we all exclaim, "Like Fang!"

In the awkward silence that follows, Iggy is probably rolling his eyes (although he's wearing sunglasses so it's hard to tell). As for our fearless leader … she looks like she wants to boil us alive, only she's too depressed to actually do anything. We've been trying to make her feel better about Fang's disappearance the only way we know – joking about it – but it doesn't seem to be working.

Before the awkward silence can get even more awkward, the door bell rings.

"I'll get it," Max says, walking over to the dirty white door and yanking it open. "No, I don't want to buy anything. Nor do I have any spare money to give you so you can buy heroin, crack, dope, or any other drug. Nor do I care about any charity you might represent. Nor do I wish to have se –"

"Max, I think you know very well that I'm not here for any of those things," answers a voice we all wish we didn't recognize.

Then, there's a dull _THUD_ as Max's fist rudely introduces itself to our guest's nose.

* * *

><p>"Max, was it really necessary for you to give Jeb two black eyes <em>and<em> a bloody nose?" Angel asks in her I'm-only-an-innocent-nine-year-old-please-don't-hurt-me voice.

"Yes," Max replies in a voice as hard as Rearden Metal, standing over him. "He is a traitor and a coward, and he isn't worthy of living on the planet we worked so damned hard to save, much less of coming here and trying to talk to us."

Her father, sitting on our kitchen floor with his back against the door, winces at the words. Jeb looks like a businessman who got lost on the way to an important conference and ended up in the Sahara desert, where he was forced to survive for a week without any food or water. His black suit is torn at the elbows and knees, his urine-colored tie is hanging on to his neck by a thread, his sandy blond hair is the home of a large amount of dirt and grime, and his face looks gaunt and wrinkled, like he aged a century in the year it's been since we last saw him. Blood drips down his cheek from where Max punched him in the nose.

Not that I care, of course.

After what he did to us, I'm almost glad he's having a hard time at the moment.

"Get out," Max snarls. Any weakness that she might have felt at the mention of Fang is completely gone; it fled from the fearless-leader-who-won't-let-anything-stand-in-her-way-least-of-all-a-traitor version of Max the way rabbits flee a wildfire.

"But I have to tell you something," Jeb protests. One has to admire the guy's determination. Hmm, I guess that's where Max got it. "I have to warn you –"

"Obviously, you didn't understand me," Max interrupts him, glowering down at her father. "This is my house, and you're not welcome here. Get the hell out."

"Yeah." Dylan stands and strides over to where Max is, the two of them creating a wall of one hundred percent bird-kid scariness. "Max is the leader, so if she tells you to get out, get out."

_Is that really the best you can do?_ I think, wishing Dylan could hear me. _Repeat what Max says like a stupid parrot? You're making the Flock look bad._

_It really is the best he can do,_ says a voice in my head that doesn't sound at all like mine … oh, right. Angel. Sometimes, I forget that she can read minds. And then the knowledge hits me like a ton of overweight Hufflepuffs. Sigh… (Yes, I made a Harry Potter reference. I'm awesome, I know.)

_I take a lot of offense at that comment,_ Angel thinks.

_Good for you._

_Gazzy, I'm going to count back from three, and when I finish, say "Get out!" as loudly as you can, okay?_

_Yeah, sure, fine, whatever._

Angel holds up three fingers … two … one …

"GET OUT!" the Flock shouts in unison. She must've relayed the message to everyone.

Jeb sighs. "Fine. I can see when I'm not wanted." Slowly, creaking like an archaic robot with joints that haven't been lubricated in years, he gets to his feet, pushes open the door, and hobbles down the steps of our house.

"You'll be sorry you didn't listen to me!" he cries just before he's out of earshot.

But nobody's paying him any attention. We're all too busy cheering.

"We sure showed him!" Nudge exclaims.

"Yeah," I agree. "He won't be back here with stupid warnings any time soon!"

Angel grins. Iggy tries to smile, but he just ends up looking like a really thirsty vampire.

Then … suddenly … our fearless leader isn't so fearless any more.

Everyone falls silent as Max sags against the door like it's the only thing between her and complete devastation. Dylan, playing Prince Charming as usual, grabs her arm, throws it across his shoulders, and drags her off toward the other end of the house. He has just enough time to throw us a don't-you-dare-bother-her-or-I'll-send-zombie-ninjas-after-you glare before they disappear into their bedroom.

"Not good," Angel whispers.

"Not good at all," Nudge says.

Iggy grunts.

I nod.

* * *

><p>"Don't try out any bombs!"<p>

"Mmm-hmm, yeah."

"Dinner's in the fridge, but make sure you leave some for Iggy."

"Mmm-hmm, yeah."

"We'll probably be back in a couple of hours."

"Mmm-hmm, yeah."

"Call if you have any … Gazzy, are you even listening to me?"

"Mmm-hmm, yeah."

"And that means 'no,' right?"

"Mmm-hmm, yeah."

"Just … try not to destroy the house, okay? Bye!"

"Bye!" I call out to the slamming front door, thankful to finally have the house to myself. Jeez. You'd think Max was leaving me alone for a month, not taking Nudge, Angel, and Total to the mall for a few hours. Iggy's at play practice and Dylan's working at Subway until five, so I have a glorious couple of hours with nobody to bother and nobody to bother me.

_And nobody to interrogate me about why I'm Googling "how to get two people to hook up_,_"_ I think, settling myself down at the kitchen counter with one of the Flock's shared laptops.

Half an hour later I've realized that, although Google is all-knowing in many departments, it is no help when you want to get your brother together with the girl he likes. Seriously. The best it had to offer was things like:

**1. ****Ask the guy if he likes the girl (if the girl likes the guy) and if he says yes then get him to ask her out. **(Right. As if Iggy would be honest.)

**2. Get them drunk. **(And I would get this alcohol … where? And I would get an excuse to use on Max when she _finds _the alcohol … where?)

**3. Drag them into the same bed. **(I don't even want to _think_ about this one.)

**4. ****Plan a social event with the three of you...then cancel because you "got sick"...but suggest that they still go. **(Somehow, I doubt Ella would agree to go to a "social event" with me. It might have something to do with that time I called her a bitch.)

**5. Blind date. **(I'm not entirely sure what this is, but it sounds painful. Besides, wouldn't all dates be blind for Iggy anyway?)

Bored and disappointed, I check my email. Nothing from Liz; she must not be having any luck either. The only new messages I have are a couple of YouTube updates telling me some new videos were posted by the people I'm subscribed to. (Yes, I have a YouTube account. I only use it so that I can comment on videos and subscribe to people, though.)

I end up watching old Monty Python clips. Somehow, watching the Knights of Ni demand shrubberies, debates about whether or not sparrows can carry coconuts, killer bunny rabbits, flying cows, and King Arthur being insulted by a castle guard with a ridiculous French accent never ceases to amuse me.

Plus, "I fart in your general direction!" is probably the best insult ever invented in the history of life, the universe, everything, and the number forty-two.

And I'm not just saying that because I'm a professional farter.

…

Well, okay, maybe I am.

Anyway, after laughing so much I feel like I'll explode if I keep it up (no, wait, bad analogy – if I exploded, it would be a good thing), I grab an apple from the fridge and open up a program Nudge illegally downloaded that lets us watch television on the computer.

"Goodius showius findius!" I yell at the screen, waving my finger around like a magic wand. Unfortunately, the channel is still stuck on footage of a guy who looks like he should've died a hundred years ago playing golf.

Well, shit. I guess that means I'm _never_ getting my Hogwarts letter.

Way to ruin my life, wizarding world. Way to ruin my life.

I channel-surf in the hopes of finding something interesting to watch, but the television seems to be infested with news channels, commercials, golf, football, and bad sit-coms at 4:15 on Tuesday afternoons. Eventually, I settle for sitting through some sort of kid's cartoon filled with personified aardvarks, rabbits, moose, and a bunch of other animals that really shouldn't be the same size but are. (Except, of course, for the dogs and cats, who look and act like normal dogs and cats. Note to self: Never let Total watch this show.)

In the episode I'm watching, one of the main characters (a bunny, I think) is attempting to get his mom back together with her old boyfriend. Apparently, this bunny really liked the boyfriend, because they went to baseball games together or something. At first, I'm only watching because I have nothing better to do, but within five minutes, my eyes are glued to the screen. (Well, not literally. That would _hurt_.)

The plan that character is using to get his mom and her ex back together is _sheer fnicking genius_.

And, seeing as he's a fictional character, he won't mind if I steal it from him and use it on Iggy and Ella.

* * *

><p><strong>YES, MAX AND DYLAN SHARE A ROOM. YES, THERE IS MYLAN IN THIS STORY.<strong>

**(But don't worry; there will be Fax by the end of it ...)**

**Also, the show Gazzy's stealing his idea from is Arthur. I don't own Arthur, for the record. (And if you recognized the episode described and know _what_ his plan is, I will love you forever. And possibly give you spoilers about the end of the story.)**

**Reviews! They're loved!**


	11. The Plan Marginally Fails

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 11: The Plan Marginally Fails Through No Fault of Our Own**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK:**

**"Wait. So, your name is Greg, but you want to be called Craig?" – my new math teacher (and yes, the kid he's talking to was inspiration for Craig, that awesome five-year-old in chapter four …)**

"**Yeah, Feliks, you're, like, so totally reliable. You, like, totally wouldn't, like, spend all the time you're supposed to be working, like, talking on the phone, to, like, Toris and Matthew and Lovi and Francis and, like, all your other friends/enemies/family members/random strangers you decided needed to learn every detail of your personal life." – me (in a review of How to Lose Your Virginity by Miggery, which is an awesome PruCan story that you totally should read if you're a Hetalia fan)**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This:**** "****Plus, 'I fart in your general direction!' is probably the best insult ever invented in the history of life, the universe, everything, and the number forty-two." In Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the number forty-two is the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:**_**ThatFreakInThePandaHat**_** (Whose username I absolutely love.) **

** THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: James Bond (LIKE A BOSS.)**

**This chapter is late.**

**Late.**

**LAAATTTTEEEE!**

**AAAAHHHH!**

**I actually have a very legitimate excuse, though.**

**Its name is Irene.**

**Hurricane Irene hit my town on Sunday, and we had no power or internet at my house from seven A.M. on Sunday to late last night. Which is why I didn't get a chance to update until now.**

**But hey! Most of my town still doesn't have power. So I'm pretty lucky.**

**Anyway, enjoy the chapter.**

**(Also, nobody knew what the plan was! NONE OF YOU GUYS ARE ARTHUR NERDS! I AM VERY DISAPPOINTED IN YOU.)**

* * *

><p><em>Iggy,<em>

_I'm really sorry about what happened the night of the Green Day concert, and I want to make it up to you. Please meet me at Donaverdi's at 6pm this Sunday._

_- Ella_

* * *

><p><em>Ella,<em>

_I'm really sorry about what happened the night of the Green Day concert, and I want to make it up to you. Please meet me at Donaverdi's at 6pm this Sunday._

_- Iggy_

* * *

><p>Donaverdi's is a unique place.<p>

The food there is average Italian fare – pizza, chicken, zuppa, antipasti, a little seafood, and lots of pasta with a large helping of spaghetti sauce – and the decoration is what you'd expect from a low-budget place like this one – faded red-and-white-checkered tablecloths and seat cushions, bluish-grayish tiled floors, and whitewashed walls dotted with drawings donated by art students hoping for publicity – but the restaurant has one truly extraordinary quality: its location. If one were to draw lines on a map of Mesa, Arizona and label its different sections – the rich, the middle-class, the ghetto, the slums – Donaverdi's would sit right on the point where all of the sections overlap. As such, people from all kinds of different ethnicities and incomes meet at this restaurant. You'd think that this would make Donaverdi's a common location of battles between gangs, but the good nature of the Donaverdi family and the cheap cost of the food helps everyone who visits the restaurant to put aside their differences and enjoy a halfway-decent meal.

That's why Gazzy and I chose Donaverdi's as the site of our next great plan: the Get-Them-To-Apologize Plan. (Yeah, I know, we should totally get an award for our creativity in plan-titling.)

"I have a reservation for five forty-five pm; the name on it should be Liz," I tell Mrs. Donaverdi, a kind, motherly woman with graying hair who acts as the maître d'.

She checks the computer on top of her podium-desk-thing (I've never figured out what you call the things that a maître d' always stands behind) and then says, "Yes, here you are. Your friend is already here."

"And the hopefully-happy couple?" I inquire.

Mrs. Donaverdi winks. "Neither of them have arrived yet, but I'm sure everything is going smoothly."

"Awesome," I reply. "Thanks for helping Gazzy and me set this up, Mrs. Donaverdi."

"Oh, it's no problem. I enjoy matchmaking just as much as you young people do."

She proceeds to hand me a menu and point me in the direction of a table near the back of the restaurant where the back of a small man buried in a huge yellow raincoat is visible.

"Gazzy, when I said, 'Be inconspicuous,' I didn't mean, 'Be as noticeable as possible,'" I scold him as I slide into the chair opposite him.

Gazzy takes a pair of large black sunglasses off his nose. "Really? Are you sure?"

"'Inconspicuous' means 'not noticeable,'" I explain. "Like, wearing a big, baggy, hooded sweatshirt that hides your face and is similar to what everyone around you is wearing would make you inconspicuous."

"Oh. Oops." For a moment, it appears as if Gazzy is drowning in a sea of yellow, then his face emerges from the depths of his raincoat, and I can see that he's wearing a navy blue sweatshirt underneath it. He pulls up the hood so that it shadows his face, like he's a fugitive trying to avoid recognition. "Is this better?"

"Yeah. Where did you get that raincoat, anyway?" I wonder aloud.

He shrugs. "I actually have no idea. See, I asked Nudge what 'inconspicuous' meant, and –"

I face-palm. "Sometimes, I forget that not all twelve-year-olds have an obscenely huge vocabulary like Iris."

At the mention of my younger sister, Gazzy's face looks kind of dreamy, like in his mind he's in a world made of candy and ice cream. "Yeah, she's amazing, isn't she …"

"Um, yeah. Sure. You just keep thinking that," I tell him. Hmm, so Gazzy likes Iris? I store the knowledge in the section of my brain reserved for Potential Blackmail as Gazzy whacks himself in the head a few times, trying to snap out of it.

"If you want brain bleach, they sell some at Wal-Mart for ten dollars a gallon," I inform him helpfully.

He finally snaps out of it and asks, "What does 'obscenely' mean?"

"Exactly my point."

"So, anyway," he continues, "I asked Nudge what 'inconspicuous' meant, and she asked why I wanted to know, and I ended up explaining the whole plan to her. She said that if we were going to be spying on Iggy and Ella, I had to dress like a spy, which meant wearing a trench coat, only we couldn't find any trench coats, and had to use a raincoat instea –"

Gazzy freezes like a bucket of liquid nitrogen was just poured over the top of his head.

"What?" I whisper urgently.

He points to something behind me. I peek over my shoulder to discover Ella stomping into the restaurant like she doesn't want to be here but felt like she had to come anyway, and am glad I wore my brother's college sweatshirt (which is about three sizes too big). My friend sits down at a table a few feet away from Gazzy's and mine and proceeds to wait.

Twenty Jeopardy-theme-song-repetitions later, Iggy slowly feels his way through the restaurant. His clothes are depressing, as usual, but his entire demeanor is like that of a puppy awaiting a treat.

"Verrrrrry innnnnnnteresting," I murmur to Gazzy, feeling quite Sherlock-Holmes-y.

"Indeed," he replies.

"That is the worst British accent I have ever heard."

"Well … you have the worst American accent I have ever heard."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Your mom doesn't make any sense."

"Your face doesn't make any sense."

"Your life doesn't make any sense."

"Why, thank you!"

Meanwhile, the probably-not-that-happy-couple mumble greetings to each other and immerse themselves in their menus like the menus are early copies of The Son of Neptune. (Yeah, they _wish_ they had early copies of The Son of Neptune …)

Even though Iggy can't actually _read_ his menu himself, and will have to have Ella read it out to him …

I sigh. "Well, at least they haven't figured out that neither of them planned this date yet."

"It could be worse," Gazzy agrees. "It could be a whole lot better, though."

* * *

><p>"Look, do you guys have any menus written in English?" Iggy inquires of a flustered waiter a few minutes later.<p>

My fellow spy and I take a break from devouring a basket of garlic bread drenched in olive oil and look up to watch the verbal sparring match that's sure to ensue.

"But … but that menu _is_ in English," the waiter stammers.

"Oh? Really? English?" Iggy retorts. "Then what the hell does ravioli di pollo mean? Those aren't any English words I've ever heard before."

"R-r-ravioli is a type of pasta, and ... p-p-pollo means chicken. R-r-ravioli di pollo is p-p-pasta shells stuffed with ch-ch-cheese and chicken."

"Then why didn't you just write 'pasta shells stuffed with cheese and chicken' on the menu?" Iggy exclaims angrily. He turns on Ella. "And why did _you_ have to meet me at such a stupid restaurant? Why couldn't we have met at, like, Mickey-D's or something?"

"Oh, shit," Gazzy and I say in unison.

"Are you even more stupid than I thought you were?" Ella yells. "_You_ invited _me_ to this place, you worthless son of a maggot-eating Sponge Bob Square Pants wannabe!"

"Do you need your brain checked? You invited me! And I'm not a worthless son of a maggot-eating Sponge Bob Square Pants wannabe; you are!"

"Is that all you can do, repeat all my insults back at me? And if I didn't invite you and you didn't invite me, then who set this up?"

"I dunno, maybe it's some sort of a tra –"

And that's when the restaurant goes black.

Well, okay, not _entirely_ black. The place has windows, and a couple streetlamps and a few street signs provide some illumination. But it sounds better if I say it was totally black, so … let's just go with that, okay?

Besides, there isn't enough light to see what's going on. In fact, if it wasn't for the sounds of scuffling, I wouldn't be able to tell that anything _is_ going on. It basically sounds like the end of an action movie, when the hero and the villain are having an epic fist fight, complete with grunts of exertion and crashes when the fighters push each other into any unfortunate objects and/or people that happen to be lying around. It all seems so unreal – things like this are common in books and movies, but something like this would never happen to me, would it? – that I simply sit there, trying to figure out what to do.

Then, somebody who sounds a whole lot like Gazzy shouts, "REDWAAAAALLLL!"

Oh … well … maybe it is Gazzy …

After all, "Redwall!" _is_ our code word for "Everything has gone wrong, get out of here right now!"

Yeah, it's probably Gazzy. And I should probably get out of here right now.

"Excuse me … sorry … 'scuse me … so sorry … I really need to get through … excuse me …" I stand and push my way through chairs, tables, and confused restaurant-goers, feeling like a mouse trying to navigate its way through a maze with a blindfold on. _Is this how Iggy feels all the time?_ I wonder. I finally reach the front door and pull on it to try to open it. It won't budge.

_Come on, open, damn you!_

_Open!_

_OPEN!_

_I SAID, OPEN!_

_THE BACON GODS COMMAND YOU TO OPEN!_

… Okay, this is one evil door. Not even the Bacon gods made it open.

Wait.

Wait just a second here.

I push lightly on the door.

It opens.

_Fail, Lizzy. FAIL._

As I step outside, I hear someone shouting, "O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus, with a kiss, I die!"

Romeo's last lines … the only person who would have them completely committed to memory is Iggy … Could it have been a signal?

"Get out of my way, fucking tomato-hating bastards! I said, OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!"

Less than a Jeopardy-theme-song-repetition later, Ella is standing on the sidewalk outside Donaverdi's, staring at me like she's a beggar and I'm one million dollars.

"What in the name of Chuck Norris are you _doing_ here?"

"Long story," I reply. "We should probably get out of here, though …"

She nods. "Yeah. Iggy started reciting Romeo's last words, so something must be up … he never would've said his lines in public, especially not the last ones. He must've been warning me to get out."

I wonder how Ella got to know Iggy so well that she could understand what he wanted her to do without him specifically saying so, but say nothing as we hurry down the block in the direction of our houses.

Suddenly …

_BOOM!_

Donaverdi's goes up in smoke.

Literally.

As in, the orange-and-gray-mushroom-cloud-of-fire-swallows-the-restaurant-and-everything-inside-it kind of going up in smoke.

"It … it exploded," I whisper, half in awe, half in horror. I've seen explosions in movies hundreds of times before, but in real life, they're so much more powerful. One can feel the ground shake a little bit, as if the very earth is frightened of the awesome power of a bomb going off.

Ella, standing beside me, makes a sort of choked noise deep in her throat. Turning to look at her, I find that her eyes are wide and her face is pale, like that of a ghost.

"Iggy …" she says.

Oh, no. Iggy and Gazzy were still in the building when it exploded.

"I'm sure they're fine," I reassure Ella (and myself). "They obviously knew about it beforehand, otherwise they wouldn't have warned us, and they probably got out in time. We just have to search around until we find them."

My friend doesn't make a sound; she simply turns and marches off down the street, huge brown eyes probing every inch of everything she sees for some sign, any sign, of the boy she loves.

* * *

><p>Someone must've dialed 9-1-1, because the sirens are everywhere. They're invading my ears, stamping out any ability to hear anything but their constant, angry wailing. Ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars swarm Donaverdi's (or a pile of blacked rubble, whichever you prefer.)<p>

Ella and I watch as the bodies are removed from the building's ashes, scarred, broken bodies made unidentifiable by the fire and smoke. The only way Ella and I know that none of the bodies are Iggy's or Gazzy's is the fact that none of them is taller than six feet (Iggy is six foot five) or have anything that might've been Gazzy's characteristic spiky blond hair. There are less than two dozen unlucky souls – many people scrambled out of the restaurant in the panic that ensued when the lights went out.

As news crews flock to the scene of destruction like vultures flocking to the carcass of a dead animal, Ella and I speed-walk away. We aren't caught by any eager reporters, which is good, but we don't see any sign of Iggy or Gazzy, which is bad.

Then, a full five blocks away, as we cross over an empty alley, Ella exclaims, "Stop!"

"What?" I ask, half-hopeful, half-desolate.

"I hear something ... like arguing ... coming from down there ..."

Cautiously, we turn and sneak into the alley, avoiding broke glass and empty cardboard boxes. We're currently in the neighborhood between the slums and the one where Ella lives, an office block that's completely vacated at sundown and where streets aren't cared about enough to be cleaned. From behind a large, rusty blue dumpster, we hear:

" – since they're free."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, we warned them, didn't we?"

"Yeah, so? Who knows how far that blast reached?"

"It was awesome, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. But DON'T CHANGE THE SUBJECT! We have to go look for them!"

"We have to get home, Max will be –"

But we never get to find out what Max will be, because that's when Ella and I peek around the side of the dumpster.

To see Iggy and Gazzy.

With wings.

Iggy's wings are completely white, like those of a snowy arctic hawk, and stretch out for seven feet on either side of him. Gazzy's orange-red kingfisher wings aren't as long, but are just as beautiful. Looking at the two boys is like looking at a painting of two avenging angels - if avenging angels could have faces smeared with Bacon grease and soot, arms and legs covered with bruises, and clothing that appears to have been ripped with knives, that is.

The looks of shock on their faces would be hilarious if it weren't for the fact that they mimic those on mine and Ella's faces.

"Oh," Gazzy says.

"Shit," Iggy finishes.

* * *

><p><strong>LOOK, IT'S A CLIFFHANGER! Hey, I like stating the obvious! Ooh, look, a chair!<strong>

**(That totally wasn't a blatant Eddsworld reference. Heh.)**

**Anyway, guess what I did today? Started ninth grade! Woo!**

**I didn't get lost, I wasn't late to any of my classes, and I managed to eat an entire lunch even though I don't have a lunch period. So, it was a good day. :)**

**But now I have a life outside of fan fiction and AMVs again ... ARGH. WHY, CRUEL WORLD, WHY?**

***insert creative threat to make you review here***


	12. Iggy, Immensely Irritating Interrupter

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 12: Iggy the Immensely Irritating Interrupter**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK:**

"**How many heads do I have?" "Uh … one." "No, three. You just can't see the other two." – my algebra teacher and a guy in my class**

"**Yesterday's crew practice could make the strongest of men cry." "So, basically, you're saying that you cried." "No, of course not! I am **_**beyond**_** the strongest of men." – two guys in my history class**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This:**** "****Gazzy freezes like a bucket of liquid nitrogen was just poured over the top of his head." In Goldeneye, one of (in my opinion) the best James Bond movies, Boris, a total computer geek and generally awesome (even though he was evil) character, dies when a huge amount of liquid nitrogen is poured over the top of his head.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:**_**FlyingSolo365**_** (A.k.a. my friend Lilah Espinoza. A.k.a. the feminine version of Gilbert Beilschmidt, if you're familiar with Hetalia…) **

** THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Wings of Flame (Which, if you didn't know – and you probably didn't – is a really old Maximum Ride/Hunger Games crossover I once started to write, lost inspiration for, and then deleted. Yes, that means that the reference is pretty much impossible to find. Yes, I'm evil. Well, not entirely … I ****_did_**** hide the quote I referenced somewhere on my profile …)**

**Okay. So. I know, I know, this chapter is really, really late … want an excuse? Yeah, you probably don't, but I have one anyway. My beta, Kina Kalamari, has been having a hard time with school and stuff, and it takes her quite a while to beta my chapters, then a while more for her to get internet so that she can actually send them to me … but since she's a really awesome beta, I'm not about to let her stop editing for me.**

**Plus, there's this thing called ****_school_**** that's making it harder for me to find time to write in general.**

**So the chapters are going to be kinda slow and not updated insanely regularly from now on, kapeesh?**

**I'm sorry about this, I really am, but … there's not much I can do about it. ==;**

**Anyway, here, enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

><p>Max looks from me to Iggy to Ella to Liz and back again, like we're a band of urchins who magically popped onto her doorstep at ten P.M. (Which is half true, but ... that's beside the point.)<p>

"What the hell is going on here?" she demands.

"That's what I want to know." Ella glares at Iggy and me – mostly Iggy – and I find myself wondering how powerful a bomb powered by her glare would be. It could demolish Russia, I bet. (Which, if you didn't know, is quite impressive because Russia is ... well, big would be a huge understatement...)

Anyway. "Since when do you and Gazzy have wings?" Ella continues.

Max turns on the two of us. If glares were lasers, we'd be dead by now. "You _showed_ them? How many times have I told you to –"

"To never reveal our wings to regular mortals, we know," Iggy interrupts in a bored, monotone lecture-voice. "But I think you can make an exception this time. After all, _they_ walked up on _us_. The fact that our wings were visible was completely coincidental."

"Not really," I argue. "If we hadn't blown up that restaurant –"

"_What restaurant?_"

"Donaverdi's," Ella answers, seeming a little pissed at being called a regular mortal (even though she is one). "And what's up with that, anyway? How come you and Gazzy were there?" she adds, looking at Liz.

Liz grins mysteriously. "All in due time." Of all of us, I think she's enjoying this experience the most – maybe it's her writer instincts kicking in, shouting, _Take notes so that you can write about this later!_ in her brain, and prompting her to make everything as similar to a fiction novel as possible.

Or something.

Personally, I just want to figure out how to explain the wing thing to her and Ella.

"Iggy. Gazzy. Inside. NOW!" Max orders. She's so angry, you can almost see steam coming out of her head.

"Can we come too?" Liz wants to know.

Max sighs. "Yeah, sure. We're going to have to explain everything to you two, aren't we …"

* * *

><p>One cheap transition later, Max, Iggy, Liz, Ella, and I are perched in various locations around the kitchenliving room/mine and Iggy's room. Iggy is sprawled on his bed; I'm sprawled on mine; Liz and Ella huddle together next to the table, unsure of what they should be doing; Max stands in the middle of the room, using her best cute-puppy-murdering glare to force Iggy and me to tell her what happened at Donaverdi's. Needless to say, for the two of us, Fang's betrayal is a preferable topic to what happened at Donaverdi's.

"So," I begin. "Um … uh … er … what happened tonight … ah … Iggy can tell it better than I can."

"What? No!" my brother protests. "Gazzy's _much_ better at this sort of thing!"

"Someone, please explain what happened," Max growls, "or I'll –"

Fortunately enough, we never get to hear what Max will do to us.

"Max?" Angel patters into the room from the bedroom she shares with Nudge. With her white lace nightgown, curly blond hair (it reaches her shoulders these days), wide blue eyes, and cute, pixie-like features, she looks like a legitimate angel. Just from looking at her, you could never tell that she can control people's minds and take out a grown man with one well-placed punch.

"Honey, go back to sleep," Max coaxes the youngest member of the Flock, her glare momentarily gone. "There's nothing you need to worry about. And you have to go to school tomorrow, remember?"

Ella glances from Angel to Iggy and back like they're on opposite sides of a tennis match and she's a spectator. After a few moments, she takes a couple steps forward and extends her hand to Angel. "Hi, I'm Ella, Iggy's girlfriend. What's your name?"

Liz nearly explodes with laughter. I look at her quizzically, and she points to Iggy. His facial expression could probably win a "Most Epically Surprised Expression" contest in the hilarious department with its gaping mouth, eyes the size of Pluto, and eyebrows disappearing into the white-blond hair above it. I start laughing, too – until Max inflicts her how-dare-you-laugh-when-I'm-about-to-punish-you glare on me, and I have to settle for stifling giggles behind a sooty hand.

"I'm Angel," Angel says, shaking Ella's hand. "Nice to meet you."

Before one could cry, "No, don't do that," Ella is crushing the younger girl in a bear hug. "You're sosososo cute! Adorably, awesomely, amazingly _cute_!"

For some reason, I'm reminded of something I read on the Internet once in a list of things girls wish guys knew: "Cute puppies are good. Cute younger sisters are better."

Maybe Iggy knows about that list. It would explain why he's smirking…

"What's going on?" Nudge enters the room wearing nothing but a tank top and short-shorts. Her ebony hair is sticking up all over her head, looking like it hasn't been brushed in weeks. She spots Angel and Ella and calmly asks, "Angel, why are you being suffocated? Do you need me to beat anyone up for you?"

With an apology, Ella releases Angel.

"Ella thought I was cute," Angel explains.

"So you're Ella, then? The girl who broke Iggy's heart?" Nudge's expression goes from mildly-annoyed-at-being-woken-up-but-still-curious to ready-to-wipe-all-traces-of-Ella's-existence-off-the-face-of-the-Earth.

"No!" the couple in question shout in unison. Everyone else laughs.

"Well, I mean, she kinda did, but …" Iggy corrects himself.

"But we're back together now, so it's all good," his girlfriend finishes for him.

"Still not sure how that happened," Iggy mumbles. "Women. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"Are you Nudge?" Liz questions Nudge.

"Yeah, I am. How'd you know?"

"We spoke on the phone a couple weeks ago, I think …"

"Oh. Yeah. That." Nudge's face turns red – well, as red as a face _can_ turn when it's caramel-colored to begin with. "I'm still sorry about that, by the way."

"It's no big deal," Liz assures her. I wonder what they're talking about … Maybe it has something to do with that time Liz called to tell me about the Green Day concert and Nudge picked up the phone.

"The whole Flock's here, so can Iggy and I explain what happened at the restaurant now?" I say, hopeful to get it over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.

An awkward silence follows. Not a big awkward silence, more like a baby awkward silence. So if a gay baby is born in an awkward silence, then what's born in a baby awkward silence? A premature gay baby? Justin Bieber the Second? Horrible thought, right there.

"… Not the whole Flock," Angel finally reminds me.

But we're all here, aren't we? Me … Angel … Max … Iggy … Nudge … well, no Fang, but that can't be helped … Who does Angel mean?

Oh. Dylan.

"I'll go get Dylan." Max disappears into her and Dylan's bedroom and emerges a minute or so later, dragging her boyfriend by the arm. Why are Liz and Ella staring? It's just Dylan wearing boxers. Well, sure, Dylan _is_ a regular Justin Bieber in terms of looks – light brown hair, blue eyes, perfect smile when he grins – but it's still just Dylan wearing boxers.

"Unguhrghwha?" Dylan mumbles sleepily.

"Yes, it _is_ important and you _do_ have to wake up," Max tells him firmly.

Justin Bieber – oh, I'm sorry, Dylan – plods over to the kitchen sink, turns the water on as cold as it will go, and dunks his head under it. After a few seconds, he shuts the faucet off and shakes himself like a wet dog, sending droplets of water flying away in search of safety.

"Okay, I'm ready," he says. "So, what's going on?"

"Well, Iggy and Gazzy came home a little bit ago," Nudge explains, "with Ella, Iggy's girlfriend – well, she used to be – oh wait, they made up, never mind – and Liz, Ella's best friend and Gazzy's friend. And there's something they need to explain, though I'm not entirely sure what it is exactly, but it's, like, uber-important, and –"

"Oh, so you're the famous Ella," Dylan exclaims, extending a hand to Liz. "Nice to meet you."

Liz blushes. "Actually, I'm Liz. That's Ella." She points to Ella, who's standing next to Angel.

"Oops, sorry. Well, it's nice to meet you, too."

Liz shakes his hand awkwardly, like she's never done it before. "Why do you say you've heard so much about Ella?" she inquires.

Dylan grins at the Iggster. "Do you really have to ask?"

"Touché."

Iggy glares at them, and they laugh.

"Now that we're all here," Max interrupts the exchange, "Iggy and Gazzy need to tell us the incredibly intriguing story of how they managed to blow up a restaurant."

"Well …" I begin.

"Um …" Iggy says.

"Liz and I had this plan, you see …"

"A plan to get Ella and Iggy to apologize to each other," Liz elaborates.

"It was all my idea," I boast. Well, technically, it was whoever-writes-the-scripts-of-Arthur-shows' idea, but the Flock doesn't need to know that. "We left Iggy a note from Ella and Ella a note from Iggy asking them to meet up at Donaverdi's at six o'clock today."

"So it was you!" Ella shouts.

Her boyfriend grins. "Thanks."

Weird. Somehow, I imagined they'd be angrier.

"Oh, I know Donaverdi's," Nudge says. "They have, like, the awesomest garlic bread _ever_. Don't tell me you guys blew it up!"

Iggy adopts a very solemn expression, the kind one might wear at the funeral of that kid you always despised but kind of enjoyed bickering with. "I'm very sorry, Nudge, but it had to go. It was for the greater good, I assure you."

"Yeah," I back him up. "If we hadn't used that bomb, there would be a pack of … of … Well, I'm not sure _what_ they were, but they could fight good –"

"Well," Liz corrects me.

"– running around Mesa, which would be bad, right?"

"No," Nudge says sarcastically, "it would be, like, totally wonderful and life would be all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows."

I glare at her. "It was a rhetorical question."

She gasps. "Gazzy! You know the word 'rhetorical!' That's, like, four whole syllables! I'm so proud of you!"

Ignoring my annoying sister, I explain what happened. "Liz and I were watching Iggy and Ella –"

"– like the creepy little lifeless perverts you are –"

"– shut up, Ig – when the lights went out. Then, I got attacked by something. I fought back, obviously –"

"Really? It wasn't obvious to me."

"I said, shut _up_, Ig – which was actually kinda difficult, since whatever-it-was fought like it didn't care whether it survived or not, and since I was getting tired and didn't think I could last much longer –"

"– as if you could've lasted that long in the first place –"

"Iggy, if you don't shut up, I'll show Ella that picture of you with pink hair."

He (finally) shut up.

"– so I took my emergency bomb out of my pocket and jabbed Iggy in the arm so that he'd do the same, and then I yelled my code word to Liz and he yelled his to Ella, we got the hell out –"

"Gazzy, language!"

"Any swear words I know I learned from Iggy."

"Iggy …"

"Don't look at me, I'm just the family pervert."

"That's exactly _why_ I was looking at you."

"– through the back window of the kitchen, and searched for Liz and Ella from the sky until they found us, unfortunately still with our wings out. And the rest … is history. Well, sorta."

For a moment, you could hear one of my farts (oh, wait, my farts are _always _audible – bad analogy, sorry) as everyone else digests my story. I take a deep breath, exhausted by the talking.

"Wow." Nudge breaks the silence. "That was, like, totally impressive. You reached about half of my record for most-words-uttered-in-one-breath."

Liz giggles and mutters something about utters.

"What were the things you fought?" Max asks. "Mutants? Robots? Worse?"

"We couldn't see them," Iggy replies, "so I have no idea."

"I did notice that if you fought one of them hard enough for over a minute, they would collapse," I added. "Does that help at all?"

"It's good, but it will make them really hard to fight if their only weakness is continued exertion," Dylan says.

"If there were, say, thirty of them, and each of you divided them up evenly, it would take five minutes to beat them all," Liz calculates.

"Assuming none of us get injured or die. And assuming there aren't more of them," Max points out.

"The best solution, I think, is to go into hiding," Angel pipes up. "Make it harder for them to find us. Maybe they'll give up and go back to where they came from."

"At the very least, we have to go somewhere else while we plan," Iggy decides. "If they could find Gazzy and me at the restaurant, they can definitely find us here."

"Okay, but before you do anything, you guys owe us an explanation," Ella butts in. (Heh. Butts. Iris has a nice butt … Oh, shit, I'm turning into Iggy …)

"An explanation … of what, exactly?" Iggy inquires.

"Of how you and Gazzy acquired those lovely birdlike appendages of yours," Liz reminds him.

"I think I speak for the Flock when I say … Huh?" I tell her.

She sighs. "Birdlike appendages. Wings."

There's a collective "Ohhhh!" Then Nudge asks, "Can I tell it?"

"NO!" everyone except Ella yells.

"I'm telling it," Iggy informs us. "Should I start at the beginning or the end? Or maybe the middle? And why does this feel like déjà vu?"

"I think I should tell it," Dylan says.

"But you've been here the less than the rest of us!" I argue.

"I should tell it, because I'm the best storyteller," Nudge insists.

"You just keep thinking that."

"I am!"

"No, you aren't."

"Yes, I am!"

"I could tell a better story than you with both hands tied behind my back!"

"But you don't need hands for storytelling!"

"Oh … yeah … Well, I'd still beat you!"

"No, I would beat _you_!"

"That's a lie and you know it!"

"EVERYBODY, SHUT UP!" Max shouts in her I'm-the-leader-so-listen-to-me-or-I-will-pull-your-brains-out-through-your-nose voice.

"I'm telling the story. And as a warning," she adds, glancing at Ella, who looks like she's thinking, _Finally!_ and Liz, who seems excited and prepared to take mental notes, "it's not going to be pretty."

"Once upon a time, not so long ago –"

"– Twenty years ago –"

"In a land not so far away –"

"– Death Valley, California –"

"A group of scientists was, for some unknown reason –"

"– Because they were evil assholes with no sense of humor, no respect for my need to see half-naked girls, and no love for Bacon –"

"Iggy, if you keep interrupting me, I'll eat all your Bacon."

"Sorry, Max. I'll stop."

"The scientists were experimenting on human DNA –"

"– In the cruelest, most evil way their twisted minds could imagine –"

"IGGY!"

"Sorry."

* * *

><p><strong>Iggy's in a good mood now, and you know what that means ... he's going to be insanely annoying. xD<strong>

**Yesterday, in Chemistry, we got to spend an entire period playing with Bunsen Burners. I was excitedly shouting about how I was releasing my inner pyro, and my lab partner just sort-of looked at me, sighed, and shook his head. Fun times. :D**

**High school isn't that bad, really; I get to see all my friends in the morning now. (I didn't last year because I had to go to the high school for math in the morning but they were all still at the middle school.) It's awesome, but I'm also constantly being hugged and/or glomped and/or molested. We disturb the masses a lot, as I'm sure you can tell ...**

**Oh, I forgot to mention this last chapter, but THIS STORY HAS OVER ONE HUNDRED REVIEWS! AAH! AMAZING! I LOVE YOU GUYS! (Except for you, Lilah. You can exile yourself to Pluto and die from lack of internet access for all I care. ... Just kidding. ... Maybe.)**

**Yes, I Caramelldansed around my house for about half an hour when I got the hundredth review ... ^^;**


	13. Shocks, ExplanationsYou Know, the Usual

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 13: Shocks, Explanations; You Know, the Usual**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK (There are five, since it's been more like two weeks):**

**"So, basically, he just said that he gets hard for dogs." "Oh, my gosh, Bella Swan complex." – my English teacher and my friend Lilah**

**"If the Revolutionary War had never happened and we were still part of England, that would be AWESOME! WE'D ALL HAVE BRITISH ACCENTS!" – a girl in my Algebra class**

**"Guess what? I'm a fortune teller! And your fortune is: you will lose the Game." – my sister**

**"ROMEO IS LIKE TAMAKI SUOH, ONLY WORSE." – Lilah**

**"Looks like you're having fun." "Yeah, I'm running away from my friends who are trying to molest me. ****_Sooo_**** fun." – a guy I'm kind-of/sort-of friends with and me**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This quote: ****"Should I start at the beginning or the end? Or maybe the middle? And why does this feel like déjà vu?" is a reference to this quote from Wings of Flame: ****"And thus, with glorious glares, I commenced telling the story of the Flock, the pyromaniac's version. I didn't start at the beginning **_**or**_** the end. I started in the middle. I'm just awesome like that."**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:**_**NarniaPrincess21**_** (For, what, the fifth time? This girl is awesome.)**

** THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: On the Rocks (Which is pretty much my favorite comic strip of all time. It's about a penguin, a polar bear, and their adventures with everything from survival of the fittest to all the things that can be done with a cardboard box to flying whales to coffee.) (You can find it on .)**

**I have some awesome news to share with you, but I'll put it at the end of the chapter, because, seriously, who wants to hear about my lame life when you could be reading this story?**

**(On a completely unrelated note, I'm currently listening to a song in German where the word "Deutsh" is repeated about a million times. I love the huge variety of songs on my computer. xD)**

* * *

><p>After a few hours of heated debate (No, that's not a hyperbole. These guys are like Guosim shrews, and you know what they say about shrews – two of them could jump in a river for the sole purpose of arguing over who got wetter afterward.), we end up at Ella's house. Why Ella's house? Well, there are several reasons. First of all, the Flock can't stay at their house. The fact that Iggy and Gazzy were attacked at Donaverdi's meant that there are people, other mutants, or robots tracking them, which meant that they're no longer safe at home, which meant that they have to move. Ella's house is ideal because a) it's big – two extra bedrooms and a kitchen the size of a science lab, b) Ella's mom, Dr. Martinez, is a veterinarian and can therefore take care of any injuries the Flock might have, and c) Dr. M is so nice that she won't mind letting the Flock stay for a few days. Also, Ella mentioned that she doesn't want to let Iggy out of her sight, and he probably feels the same way (especially after Ella called herself his girlfriend).<p>

So here we are, at midnight, ringing the doorbell to the Martinez dwelling.

And, a Jeopardy-theme-song-repetition later, ringing it again.

Finally, an exhausted and much-in-need-of-a-few-coffees Dr. Martinez groggily opens the door in a "FIGHT FOR THE CURE" t-shirt and green and red flannel pajama pants. She takes one look at us and closes the door. We hear the sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen, the roar of a microwave, some pouring, some slurping, and then the door opens again.

"Damn," Dr. M says, looking more awake than she did before. "It wasn't just a weird dream."

"How do you know for sure?" Iggy asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Ella kicks him in the leg, then greets her mom.

"Mom, some friends of mine need a place to stay for a little while. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Dr. M answers with a yawn. "As long as the house stays clean and they pay for their own food, it's fine with me."

My friend mouths, "Yes!" and motions for everyone to start filing in one by one, so that she can introduce them.

"Mom, this is Angel … Nudge … Iggy …" – I notice she blushes a little when Iggy brushes by her with a wink – "… Gazzy … Dylan … and Max."

"Max," Dr. M repeats, staring at the Flock leader like she's an alien from some far corner of the galaxy.

"Yeah," Max replies. "What?"

"Max … Is that short for Maximum Ride?"

Max gasps. "How did you know?"

Still standing on the doorstep, I look from Max to Dr. M and back again. Then I notice how similar they look. They have the same chocolate-brown eyes … the same arrogant, upturned nose … the same sarcastic smirk when they grin … the same dimple on their left cheek …

I look around to see if anyone else is making this connection, but they just seem to be panicking over this strange woman who knows their leader's full name. And then, the question comes.

"Max … Do you … have wings?"

Max's arm flies towards Dr. M's face so fast I can barely see it, but before it connects, it's blocked. The older woman's two hands tighten around the girl's one as the woman's face clenches in exertion and then chokes out what, oddly, doesn't particularly surprise me:

"Max … I'm your … I'm your mother."

Well, it may not have shocked me, but it certainly shocked the Flock.

For an infinite moment, there is silence.

Then, Gazzy whispers, "Holy sweet whale carcass."

We can't help it; we all laugh. If there's one thing Gazzy's good at, it's breaking the tension.

* * *

><p>The kitchen clock reads way-later-than-any-sane-person-should-be-up-on-a-school-night and the Flock, Ella, Dr. M, and I are seated in various locations around the Martinez's kitchen. A couple Jeopardy-theme-song-repetitions have passed since the former mad scientist among us finished her story of how she got involved (and un-involved) with Jeb and Itex, a surprisingly intriguing story complete with romance, betrayal, and experiments-gone-wrong.<p>

"So … let me get this straight," Ella begins slowly. "I'm Max's sister."

Dr. Martinez nods.

"You used to be part of the evil corporation that gave the Flock wings and –" Her fists clench. "– made Iggy blind."

Another nod.

"You work a low-paying job in Mesa even though you could've gotten a much better one somewhere else because you wanted to hide us."

Still another nod.

"Jeb isn't just a normal douche; he's a douche with a Ph.D. in being a douche."

Yet another nod.

"You're okay with the fact that I'm carrying Iggy's baby."

"_WAIT, WHAT?_" Dr. M and Iggy screech. Iggy. Screeched. Like a girl. It's times like these that I really wish I carried a video camera around with me.

Ella sighs in fake exasperation at her mother's cluelessness. "Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention, Mom."

The Flock's fearless leader, meanwhile, looks more shell-shocked than a little kid who just discovered that Santa Claus isn't real. (I discovered the sad fact seven years ago, when I learned to distinguish different styles of handwriting – if Santa does exist, he and my mom make their k's in the exact same illegible way.)

"Max?" Dylan inquires, concerned. "Are you okay?" He takes her hand and squeezes it. I'm not sure how this would be reassuring – his hands looks like it went swimming in a sea of sweat – but Max's mouth twists upward in a small smile.

"It's all just so much," the leader admits, her voice on the verge of cracking.

Her mother – saying that feels so weird – stands, walks over to the huge black refrigerator near the front of the kitchen, takes a metal jar off the top of it, and extends it to Max. "Cookie? They're a little old, but they still taste fine."

Max screws open the jar's lid and takes a few of Dr. M's famous, mouth-watering chocolate chip cookies. "Thanks." She bites into one tentatively, then her eyes widen and she quickly devours the rest like a starving animal.

"Cookies make everything better, don't they?" Ella observes, laughing.

"Especially chocolate chip ones," her newly-found sister agrees, "and _especially_ these."

"I'm glad you like them," Dr. M says. "I made them with my grandmother's recipe. The secret is to use buttermilk instead of regular milk, and …"

Bonding over chocolate chip cookies, the family ascends the gray-carpeted stairs leading up to the second floor. Scratching our heads like apes with lice and wondering how the fnick they managed to get over their awkwardness so quickly, the rest of us follow. Ella flicks a switch at the top of the stairwell, illuminating the second floor of her house, a place I know as well as the Mesa Public Library. (Translation: Really, really well.) A hallway, floored with the same soft carpet as the stairs and covered with photos of Ella and Dr. M, stretches out to the left and right of the staircase like two perpendicular branches of a tree. On the right are Dr. M's room, Dr. M's study, and a guest room. On the left are Ella's room, a bathroom, the other guest room, and a large linen closet.

"The guest rooms fit two people each," Dr. M informs the Flock as she points out the two spare rooms. "Each room contains a couple of blankets and pillows and the carpet is soft enough to sleep on. Someone can share Ella's room and someone can take the couch downstairs. Liz, you should go home. Any question you have, ask Ella. I'm going to bed."

The doctor smiles warmly and opens her arms invitingly. Ella goes to her almost immediately, and Max nervously follows soon after, but seems to be thoroughly jubilant once she's engulfed in her newly-found mother's hug. It's such a Kodak moment, everyone else grins and _Aaawww_s.

A minute or so later, reluctantly breaking the hug and calling out good-nights, my friend's mom yawns and vanishes behind the slammed door of her room.

"Dibs on the couch!" Gazzy shouts.

We all stare at him.

"But isn't that the worst place to sleep ?" I ask.

He shakes his head, grinning like a hyena. "It's the closest place to the fridge."

The twelve-year-old bird-kid descends the stairs to the rhythm of seven people face-palming.

"Angel and I will take the spare room on the right," Nudge decides. Angel nods her agreement, they say good-night, and they head into the room.

"Max and I will take the other guest room," Dylan says.

His girlfriend glares at him for making her decision for her, but she eventually sighs, tells us good-night, and goes with him, leaving Ella, Iggy, and me alone in the hallway.

A slow smile spreads across Iggy's face like the sun slowly emerging from behind a cloud. "Well, I guess that leaves me with you, Ella," he observes.

"Right, as if I wasn't your first choice to begin with," she teases him, an equal smile spreading across her face.

"You _wish_ you were my first choice."

"Nah, _you_ wish _you_ were _mine_."

"Yeah, right – OW!"

I grin as I watch them disappear into Ella's room. They're flirting. This is good. Very good.

Then, from behind Ella's poster-covered door, I hear a muffled voice saying, "I really am sorry for that night, you know."

And, a short awkward silence later, "You better be."

"Want me to make it up to you?"

"… Sure."

Even better.

* * *

><p>"You did <em>what<em> with Iggy last night?"

I stop trudging into the school building and stare at my best friend who, if it weren't such a cliché thing to say, I would describe as "glowing with happiness." Despite the huge black circles under her eyes, the bird's-nest-like state of her hair, and the Harry Potter t-shirt and jeans that she obviously threw on without any semblance of order (or a shower), I seriously don't think I've ever seen her this … joyous.

But I didn't hear her right. There's no fnicking way I heard her right.

A few other high-school students glare in my direction, annoyed at being woken up from the half-sleep most of us fall into at seven o'clock in the A.M. I apologize and repeat my question more softly.

"You did _what_ with Iggy last night?"

"Reached second base," she says proudly.

Silence invades our conversation as I process what she just told me. Finally, I muse, "I'm not sure whether I should be alarmed and back away slowly or be happy for you and begging for details."

"The second one."

"Well … okay, then … Details, please?" Although it _is_ a bit weird and alarming that Ella and Iggy went that far so quickly (Wasn't there whole last argument about how he tried to go to second base without her permission?), I _am_ proud of them. I have that sort of feeling that I imagine parents get when they see their child getting married. That they-grew-up-so-fast-*tear* feeling. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I engineered most of the matchmaking …

"It was so amazing," my friend is ranting in the meanwhile. "Iggy's a total pervert and he kept making all these suggestive comments, but he was actually a total virgin and kinda awkward the whole time, which was _so cute_! He was always asking me, like, 'Is this okay?' and 'Am I doing this wrong?' But he never _was_ doing it wrong. And he's such a great kisser, oh, my God … Plus, he looks _so hot_ without a shirt on – his abs are huge, and –"

God, why did I have to ask for details?

Oh, well. At least I'll have entertainment while I make my way to my locker.

And I guess her monologue _is_ interesting.

In a creepy, Gossip-Girl-esque way.

"– and he's sweet, really, you wouldn't think it because of his punk slacker attitude but he can be nice if he wants to be, even though he's a total jerk sometimes. Being with him was so amazing, though – like Bacon and Green Day and hundreds on tests and winning games and impromptu Caramelldanse sessions and everything else that makes life worth living all rolled into one, you know?" She pauses for breath.

"I guess I do know," I reply, thinking of Adam. Then, before she starts up again, I add, "So, are you in love with him?"

She blushes the color of a ripe Roma – I mean, the color of a ripe tomato. "No, whatever gave you that idea?"

"Oh, come on, Ella,' I say exasperatedly. "I wouldn't be a very good best friend to you if I wasn't able to pick up on the fact that you love Iggy. Besides, I'm a writer. We know these things."

"W-well," she stammers, "just because I occasionally don't want to throw him into a Russian sewer and my heart beats faster when he smiles at me and I sometimes find myself staring at him and he charges through my mind all the time and I think he's not that bad looking and I actually _want_ to kiss him because he doesn't kiss like a slobbering dog unlike every other boy I've kissed doesn't mean I'm in love with him … Does it?"

I can't help it; I laugh, earning myself an uncomplimentary glance.

"What?"

"Actually, everything you said is a symptom of you being in love with him."

"… Oh."

We're silent for a little while as I open my locker and shove some extra stuff into it. Colin, whose locker is to the left of mine, accidentally slams it shut with his backpack. I mutter a few choice German swear words (I find they're the most satisfying) and re-open it, then ask Ella, "So are you guys going to get married next?"

She emerges from her daydreams (probably of Iggy) with a "Whaaa?"

I shrug. "It's only logical, especially since you're playing Romeo and Juliet. They got married within a couple days of meeting each other."

After a chuckle at her bewildered expression, I inform her, "I was kidding."

"Well, actually," she says with a mischievous grin, "Iggy _did_ propose last ni – OW! What was that for?"

"The voices told me to do it," I tell her in my most innocent I'm-only-a-little-writer-girl-don't-hurt-my-face-I-kind-of-need-it voice as I escape down the hallway.

* * *

><p>At lunch that day, mine and Ella's table is, as usual, filled to over-capacity. The two of us aren't necessarily the most popular girls in our grade, but our clique is one of the highest ranked. With her good looks, not-too-intelligent intelligence, confident personality, and spark of cruelty, Ella fits into the clique perfectly. I, on the other hand, am only part of it because a) I'm Ella's best friend and b) every self-respecting clique needs an intellectual badass to go to for homework help and the like. The conversation is what you'd except from a group of sophomore girls: boys, clothes, boys, make-up, boys, hair, boys, horrible teachers, boys, upcoming tests, and boys.<p>

"Peter looked _so cute_ today!"

"Omigod, yes! His lacrosse jersey is, like, incredibly hot."

"Did you hear about the sale at Aeropostale?"

"Yeah, I'm totally going to buy a new jean skirt while it's going on. My old one is, like, _so_ last month."

"What did you think of Megans' English test?"

"Totally impossible. The questions didn't make any sense!"

"Really? I thought it was easy."

"Shut up. You're such a nerd."

"Hey, we prefer the term intellectual badass!"

"Mmhmm … By the way, Ella, I heard that you and Iggy Griffiths are going out again."

I look over at my friend. Her fingers are clenched around her water bottle so tightly that her knuckles are turning white.

"But it's, like, only a rumor, right?" the speaker – Larissa – continues.

"Why does it matter if it's a rumor or not?" Ella says through clenched teeth.

"Oh, so is it _not_ a rumor, then?" the other girl asks nervously.

"What's not a rumor?" Evelyn butts in.

"Ella's going out with Iggy Griffiths again!"

"Oh, no way!"

"I thought she dumped him for good!"

"She's way too good for him."

"Oh, but she _is_ dating him. Look at her _face_."

As the news flies around the table like an angry bee on steroids, my friend simply grows angrier and angrier. Soon, she might explode. Which, contrary to whatever Gazzy might tell you, would _not_ be a good thing.

"I said, why does it matter?" she repeats.

Larissa giggles and tosses her straightened hair over her shoulder.

"It matters because, well, as I told you before, you can't date him."

"And why is that?"

"Well, friends don't let friends commit social suicide."

"Why would it be social suicide?"

"Oh, you know."

"No, I don't."

"Of course you know! Just a few weeks ago, if I started dating Iggy Griffiths, you would've said the same thing to me."

"… Ella, are you okay?"

* * *

><p><strong>So, news of awesomeness! First and foremost, I GOT INTO THE JAZZ BAND AT MY HIGH SCHOOL! ON PIANO! CONGRATULATE ME!<strong>

… **You probably don't care.**

**Whatever. I care, and I'm proud of it. Even if I only got in because I was one of only two pianists who auditioned, and two pianists get in.**

**Now I just need to find someone to drive me to the high school at five P.M. every Monday …**

**Also, guess what we're studying in English right now? ROMEO AND JULIET. Amazing coincidence, much? It's actually quite fun – NOT BECAUSE THE TEACHER EXPLAINS ALL OF THE DIRTY SEX JOKES, SHUT UP, LILAH – but because I can complain about how Romeo is an emotional idiot who is in love with the idea of love in front of my entire class and get a good participation grade for it. :D**

**Life for me isn't half bad at the moment. If only I could get my friends to stop molesting me every time they see me, it would be just awesome.**

**Reviews are loved. :)**


	14. Sushi Is, Like, Totally Not Gross

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 14: Sushi Is, Like, Totally Not Gross**

**RANDOM COMMENT OF THE WEEK:**

**"Ah, I see why you got that T-shirt. It's so that, when you wear it, boys can say, 'Wait, where am I on this map?' and have a good excuse to stare at your chest." – the lady whose apartment I'm currently staying in (well, she said it in Russian, but I translated it)**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: When Gazzy says****, ****"Holy sweet whale carcass." Holy sweet whale carcass is an expletive from the On the Rocks comic with the seagulls and the snowballs and … yeah.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:****_ livelaughloveanddance_**** (Whose username I love.)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Paddington (You know, that bear from that children's book series … what? You don't know who he is? BLASPHEMY!)**

* * *

><p>"Today, a group of 'popular' girls tried to stomp on my ego," Iggy announces as he marches through the door on Tuesday afternoon. I glance up from my math homework (which is actually quite uncomfortable, since I'm lying face-down on my bedcouch/thing), glad for a distraction from stupid problems about _x_ and _y_ and a bunch of other abstract algebraic crap that nobody cares about. Well, except for math teachers, I guess. But they don't count, since they're math teachers, and math teachers are evil …

Anyway.

"They insulted me, they taunted me, they ridiculed me, and they ignored me," my brother continues happily, the way one might describe the ending of one's favorite book.

"Why do you seem so happy about it?" I ask.

"Because they didn't succeed," he says. "Nothing they did to me could hurt me! The walls of my ego protected me! My ego is just so big and so awesome, nobody can penetrate it!"

"That's, like, what they all say right before some girl comes along and, like, tears their egos to bits," a voice calls from Nudge's and Angel's room.

"Shut up, Nudge!" Iggy hollers in reply. He turns to me. "You see, my dear Gasman, a man's ego is his most vital organ. Without an ego, a man is absolutely nothing. Or he's a sitzplinker. Or a woman. I'm not sure which of those is the worst, but they are all very, _very_ bad."

I have no idea what he's talking about, but he's obviously in a good mood, so I'll let him enjoy it for a while.

_Just smile and nod, Gazzy, just smile and nod.__  
><em>

"Can I hear the story behind this?" Max says, emerging from her room. "Actually forget about 'can I.' I _will_ hear the story behind this."

"Well, today Ella invited me to sit with her at lunch," Iggy explains, "because that's what girlfriends do with their boyfriends or whatever. And Ella's friends are 'popular' girls, and 'popular' girls don't like me much –"

"Why is that?" Max asks, a little concerned.

"Because I don't give a shit what they think of me and only hang out with people who feel the same way, obviously."

"Iggy, language! There are children around!"

"What chil – oh, you mean Gazzy? Don't worry about him. I corrupted him years ago. Gazzy, recite the Perverted Facts of Life."

"All girls are beautiful when the lights are out. Love your neighbor, but don't get caught. Thou shalt not commit adultery, unless in the mood. Watching porn is an educational experience; do it often. Lust crosses all boundaries. Never give up. Except in the case of your virginity. Clothes are for wussies. Tampons are also for wussies. As are any other forms of birth control. If you can see it, you can screw it. All you need is –"

"Okay, okay, I get it," our fearless leader says exasperatedly. "Just … finish the story."

Iggy and I share a high-five, and then he continues, "They don't like me much, so they were insulting me and saying Ella should dump me and stuff like that. I didn't really care since, like I said, I don't give a shit what they think of me, but Ella got really mad and said that _she's_ coming to sit with _me_ on Thursday. So, as I see it, victory."

"Definitely a victory," I agree. "We should go get some ice cream to celebrate."

"Rainbow Scoop?"

"Yeah. Max?"

The bird-kid in question sighs. "Sure, go ahead. Just bring me back a pint of chocolate moose tracks."

"Yes, sir!"

"And don't call me sir!"

"Yes, si – I mean, ma'am."

* * *

><p>Rainbow Scoop is one of those immensely old-fashioned, family-run, home-made-or-bust places that serve you ice cream delicious enough to voluntarily watch <em>Twilight<em> for but don't accept credit cards. It's like the great-grandmother of all modern ice cream places, complete with rust, old age, generosity, forgetfulness, and an obscenely large number of photos of its grandchildren occupying the walls. The awesomeness of Rainbow Scoops' ice cream (and the hotness of its cashiers, the two sons and two daughters of the owner) keeps the place's metal bar stools and dingy booths packed to the max, usually with kids Iggy's age or younger.

Quite a few of today's ice cream consumers seem to recognize Iggy as we walk in, but he doesn't notice (probably aided by his inability to see their cute-puppy-murdering glares). My marginally perverted brother and I stride up to the counter and begin the long, painful process of deciding what we want. You see, true to its name, Rainbow Scoops actually has flavors in all existing variations of all the colors of the rainbow, including obscure colors like gold and turquoise. Each and every flavor is delicious. I shouldn't have to give any more explanation as to why deciding what we want is a long and painful process.

"What do you think?" I ask Iggy after twenty-odd Jeopardy-theme-song-repetitions.

"Orange marmalade all the way," he answers. "It seems to be about time for my Elevenses."

"But it's almost six P.M!"

"Eleven o'clock is only seventeen hours from now."

"Or seven hours ago."

"Same difference."

"Do you guys want to order something?" A girl's voice interrupts our bickering. It's Sarah, the younger of the two serving girls, a nineteen-year-old brunette with bright green eyes and short, frizzy hair that sticks up like she was recently electrocuted. For some odd reason, the hairstyle that would look horrible on anyone else looks good on her. (But not as good as Iris' haircut looks on her … Okay, moving on …)

"Yeah, we do," Iggy tells her. We do what? Oh, right, he's ordering. "I'd like two scoops of orange marmalade, sugar cone. What about you, Gaz?"

WhatW"Um … lemon for me. Two scoops in a waffle cone."

"What's the magic word?" Sarah inquires teasingly.

"Uh … you're welcome?" Iggy tries. "No, that's not it …"

She face-palms. "It starts with a 'p.'"

"Please?" I ask.

"Yeah. That." She opens the glass case where the ice cream is stored and starts scooping some orange marmalade.

"Oh, and a pint of chocolate moose tracks," I add, remembering Max's order. "Please."

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, as the Igster and I are contentedly satisfying the never-ending desires of our internal organs with delectable frozen milk fat (i.e. eating ice cream) at one of Rainbow Scoops' high, circular tables, someone calls out to us. Or, more specifically, to Iggy.<p>

"Yo, Iggy!"

My brother pretends he's deaf.

"Blind dude!"

He continues to shovel ice cream into his mouth without answering.

"Goth!"

"Wise-ass!"

"Moron!"

"Punk!"

Still no change in Iggy.

"Pervert!"

"Creep!"

"Stalker!"

"Porn-lover!"

Iggy's body tightens up a little, and he whispers, "If they want to get my attention and/or insult me, they should at least be _creative_ about it."

I'm not sure whether to face-palm, laugh, or give him a high-five. Maybe all three. After all, the more creative an insult is, the better.

Then again, if one's insult is _too_ creative, one's insultee (if that wasn't a word, it is now) could start laughing and not be insulted at all …

Anyway.

Meanwhile, the insults/attempts to get Iggy's attention are becoming more and more desperate/insulting.

"Son of a bitch!"

"Fag!"

"Dick!"

"Bat!"

Between two blinks of an eye (a human eye, not a fish eye), Iggy's hands are encircling the throat of the insulter, a dark-skinned, dark-haired guy of about sixteen who was occupying a booth a few feet away from us.

"What. Did. You. Just. Call. Me?" Iggy snarls.

Uh, yeah. _Someone's_ angry.

"Um … a bat. You know, because you're blind, and there's that saying: blind as a –"

"A bat. Yeah, dickhead, I know. Now listen, moron. _Bats aren't blind_. That saying is a total piece of shit. It's even more shitty than your face, which I seriously didn't think was poss –"

"Wait a minute," the guy says suddenly, oddly calm for someone in the process of being choked. "I called you a dick, a fag, and a creep, but the thing that finally got you to acknowledge me was 'bat?' How the hell does that make any sense?"

"Do you have a _problem_ with that?" Iggy retorts, his hands tightening around the offender's neck.

Okay, this really isn't good.

I mean, seriously. If Iggy accidentally kills this idiot, we're going to have to deal with the police again, and they've already given us seven warnings in as many weeks. Plus, the police have even less common sense than that kid in my history class who asks, "What?" every time the teacher gives a direction. Explaining our "crimes" to them has taken entire evenings _much_ better spent playing video games.

I step forward and am about to pull my brother off the person he's currently assaulting when somebody beats me to it.

"Leave him alone," a smaller blond guy says, pulling Iggy away with a surprising amount of strength.

"Yeah," the insulter chimes in, glaring. "You can't just go around assaulting people. Especially when they're people who have all rights to beat your brains out of your head."

"Since when do losers like you have the right to do that?" Iggy retorts.

"Since your new _girlfriend_ –" He says the word like it's something disgusting. "– cheated on my best friend with you."

Well.

That explains it.

_Oh, shit._

* * *

><p>"I can't believe that guy," Iggy fumes as we walk out of the ice cream place. Or, well, <em>I <em>walk out of the ice cream place. He _stomps_ out of the ice cream place.

After some persuasion, a few threats, and a small dose of bribery, the blond guy – who turned out to be Robbie himself – managed to separate the two new enemies, insisting that he was over Ella, he knew she liked Iggy more anyway, he was happy for them, and all that other crap that nobody really believed but pretended to believe so as not to make a scene.

I sigh. "Max will be furious when she finds out what happened."

"Not when," he corrects me. "If. _If _she finds out. But that's not important. She didn't fucking cheat! We didn't do anything until after _Robbie_ broke up with _her_. What the hell was he yapping about?"

"Maybe … maybe he just had the wrong idea?" I fib.

"Well, he better get the right idea," my brother says, pounding his fist into his hand like he wishes it was a certain somebody's skull, "or I'll give him the right idea … of what it feels like to be hammered into oblivion."

* * *

><p><em>Hey, Gazzy,<em> says a voice in my head.

And before you dump me in a mental hospital or something else equally horrifying, remember that my younger sister can read and send thoughts.

_Angel, I'm trying to beat level twenty here,_ I think back at her. _This had better be important._

_There's someone at the door. Can you get it?_

_Why can't you get it? You're closer._

_I'm busy._

_And I'm not?_

_**You**__ owe me six donuts._

_Fine, I'll get it._

I sigh, save my game, close the laptop, and roll sideways off the couch.

…

_Ow._

Did you ever notice how _hard_ floors are?

They're really, seriously hard. As in, cement hard. As in, diamond hard. As in, I-nearly-broke-my-back-falling-onto-it-from-two-feet-up hard.

The moral of this story is that, sometimes being lazy hurts. Literally.

Anyway.

So, I hobble over to the door, rubbing my back, and pull it open, ready to shoot off Max's traditional door-answering spiel.

Unfortunately, I can't. It's Liz.

"Greetings and salutations, Avian American. What's up?"

"The floor," I answer immediately.

"Good to hear," she replies.

"So, why are you here?" I ask.

"Oh, y'know. Interrogating, discerning, hypothesizing, trolling the interwebs … That sort of thing."

I nod wisely, pretending I understood that. "Okay. But the important question is: did you bring food?"

The geeky girl grins and brandishes a paper bag labeled with Chinese – or maybe Japanese, I can't really tell them apart – characters. "How does sushi sound?"

"Like a type of soup made from sheep?"

"…"

_WHACK!_

"OW! What was that for?"

* * *

><p>"Hey, Liz! When did you get here?"<p>

Nudge bounces into the kitchen, where Liz and I are setting out plates with different types of sushi on the granite countertop. Iggy and Ella, who were "helping each other with homework" (translation: making out) but raced downstairs when Liz hollered, "FREE FOOD!", are sitting on a couple of stools behind aforementioned counter, staring at the sushi as if they can eat it just by looking at it. (You can't, by the way. I've tried.) Max, Dylan, Angel, and Total appear to be engaged in a heated debate about whether the repeated word in that hunting chant about lions and jungles and some other African things that I forget is "awimoway" or "hawimowet" at the table. Dr. Martinez is at work late. I think. Either she's at work late or she's on a date with someone whose name isn't Jeb.

Now that all the descriptive crap is out of the way, back to the conversation at hand.

"I got here a few minutes ago," Liz answers Nudge. "Why?"

Oh, no. She asked Nudge one of the five W questions. The rambling might go on for hours …

"Well, I was just, like, curious because, like, I didn't know, and stuff. You're not usually over here this late, too; I mean, it's almost, like, nine, and – hey, is that sushi?"

"Yeah, want some?" Liz lifts a plate of salmon-filled, rice-y, seaweed-y goodness and moves it closer to Nudge, who shrinks away like it's one of my best farts.

"Ew, no way! Sushi is, like, raw fish! That's gross!"

"Actually, it isn't," I correct her. "The fish is smoked."

"Well, it's still gross!" she insists.

"Have you ever actually _tried_ sushi?" Liz wants to know.

"Well … no."

"Come on, try a piece. It won't kill you."

"Like, no way!"

"Just one. Please?"

"If you do, I'll shut up for an entire five minutes," I add hopefully.

She relents. "Okay, fine."

I can hear Beethoven's Fifth in my head as the caramel-colored bird-kid closes her eyes and pops a piece of sushi into her mouth. Or maybe that's just Liz singing it.

…

Actually, it _is_ Liz singing it.

Nudge chews slowly and swallows with an audible gulp. Then she opens her eyes, grins, and exclaims, "I love it! It's, like, totally not gross! MAX, GUESS WHAT? I, LIKE, LIKE SUSHI NOW!"

"Amazing, I'm sure," Max deadpans.

"Indeed," Liz seconds (in a British accent, of course).

For a couple minutes, Liz, Nudge, and I are distracted by the awesomeness that is how the word "indeed" sounds when it is said in a British accent and the deliciousness that is sushi, then Liz says, "Okay. Now. Gazzy and Iggy, I need you to tell me everything about the people/aliens/ninjas/pirates/zombies/whatever that attacked you at Donaverdi's."

"You do? Why?" I ask.

"So that I can research them and see if I can figure out what they are," she explains.

"Oh." I guess that makes sense.

"Snnnff ink ah ood ahddnnff tah mnnff," Iggy says through a mouthful of sushi.

"What?"

"Sorry. Sounds like a good idea to me," he repeats.

Liz smiles in that evil-schoolteacher-about-to-give-an-impossible-exam way she has on occasion and takes a notepad and pen from her back pocket. "Now, what do the things look like?"

"How should I know?" Iggy counters. "I'm blind!"

"Well, can you tell me, Gazzy?"

"It was dark, so … no."

"But you have night vision, don't you?"

"Yeah, but … when you're fighting for your life, you're not usually concentrating all that hard on what your enemy looks like."

"Didn't you at least see _something_?"

"Well, their weapons were shiny."

"All weapons are shiny."

"My farts aren't shiny."

"That doesn't count."

"Are you saying my farts aren't weapons?"

I hear Max sigh and mutter, "It's going to be a long night."

* * *

><p><strong>So, everybody, guess where I am?<strong>

**Bet you won't be able to. (Well, except for those of you who know. But you don't count.)**

…

**I'm in Russia's vital regions.**

**There are some marginally complicated family reasons, but yeah. Seriously. I'm in Moscow right now. My family and I are going to be in Russia for the next two weeks or so. I'll try to get chapter fifteen and maybe even chapter sixteen done during that time, but … well, I have a lot of homework to do, not to mention I might not have internet after we leave Moscow for the town where my family lives. So, basically, no promises.**

**But like I said, I'll try.**

**By the way, for anyone reading this who'd like to read a Hetalia story from me, I have a poll up on my profile right now for which one I should write after I finish this … any votes would be much appreciated. :)**

**Review?**


	15. Free porn?

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 15: Free porn?**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE WEEK – ER, MONTH:**

**"After all, how can you be properly happy without vodka?" – my dad**

**"OH MY GOD, GUYS, THEY'RE BOMBING THE CHINESE!" – me**

"**The ****sooner ****I ****find ****my ****'true****love', ****the ****sooner ****I ****get ****this ****dating ****idiocy ****done.****" – ****my ****friend ****Michi (****Kageegak)**

"**I have a giant stuffed tomato AND a real tomato. MY LIFE IS COMPLETE!" – an America cosplay-er**

"**Romano, have you ever had sex with your brother?" "NO! … Well, maybe once … BUT ONLY ONCE, I SWEAR!" "He's telling the truth. I should know; I was there." "Wait, WHAT?" – an America cosplay-er, Romano cosplay-er, and Prussia cosplay-er**

"**Dear Internet, Together we can achieve great things. Sincerely, procrastination." – somebody on dearblankpleaseblank**

**"I'm just a man in a suit and a zombie unicorn hat filming himself, what else do you expect to see in a park on a Monday morning?" – John Green**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: When Iggy orders orange marmalade ice cream because he claims it's about time for his "Elevenses." Paddington ate tea with orange marmalade at eleven o'clock every day during a meal he referred to as his "Elevenses."**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME****: ****NOBODY! I am so disappointed in all of you. D:**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Doctor Who**

**(There's some crap I have to tell all of you, but I'm gonna put the A/N at the end of the chapter since I'm pretty sure you want to read the chapter before you want to read my not-necessarily-good news.)**

* * *

><p>"Okay, everybody!" Mrs. Jasani announces to the cast and crew of <em>Romeo and Juliet<em>, currently gathered in a haphazard oval-ish-type-thing that attempted to be a circle and failed miserably on the stage that afternoon.

Everybody, too busy with chatting, flirting, gossiping, arguing, thinking, and all the other normal activities with which high school kids generally engage themselves, fails to hear her.

"Everybody!" she tries again. "Kids! People! Teenagers! Things!"

Unfortunately for Mrs. Jasani, a loud voice is not one of the things with which she has been blessed, so she adopts the widely-used I'll-just-wait-until-you-notice-I'm-waiting method.

Five minutes of this do not lead to a remedy of the nobody-is-listening problem.

Finally, Gazzy, the only person who noticed that our fair teacher has something to say (besides myself) stands up, cups his hands around his mouth, and hollers at the tops of his much-wider-than-Mrs.-Jasani's lungs, "FREE PORN!"

The auditorium is now more quiet than a morgue – and everyone knows that dead people don't make any sounds whatsoever. Well, unless, of course, they're being possessed by evil aliens trying to take over the world while claiming that they're good aliens who only want to get back to their home planet … But in that case, the aliens would be making sounds, not the dead people …. Oh, forget it.

Mrs. Jasani looks at Gazzy. "Free porn?"

He shrugs. "Works every time."

…

…

…

Yeah, I don't want to know.

…

…

…

Anyway.

"What I _wanted_ to say," the teacher says, "is that we're rehearsing the first scene today."

This invokes a varied reaction from the audience: some people laugh, some groan, and a few, Iggy in particular, adopt the smirk that usually comes before a perverted comment of some sort.

"And we're going to try, really, seriously _try_," Mrs. Jasani adds with a glance at the aforementioned pervert, "to keep it _serious_ this time. I think you guys are _mature_ enough to handle this after working with me for a few weeks."

"Think?" I mutter. "_Hope_ is more like it."

* * *

><p>"'A dog of the house of Montague moves me,'" Bob, the skinny, dark-haired freshman (one of those freshmen who used to be short but just got his growth spurt, making his body look like a puzzle where some of the pieces have been elongated and none of them fit together quite right) recites for the sixth time from his place as Sampson on center stage.<p>

I, along with most of the other assorted cast and crew in the auditorium at the moment, attempt to hide my giggle behind my hand for what is probably the hundredth time – pretty much every single line in this dialogue has some sort of "_double meaning_" (as Mrs. Jasani calls it) that is … well … Let's just say rated R.

"No, no, no," the play director herself interrupts the scene from the side of the stage. "You're doing it all wrong. You have to have _emotion_. Gregory, your good friend and fellow servant, just insulted your manliness! The horror! The inhumanity! Show me how you _feel_ about this!"

"Um … 'A _dog_ of the house of Montague moves me,'" he tries.

Even more giggling.

"You still sound like you're reciting it out of a book," Mrs. Jasani berates him. "Let me hear someone else say it. … Iggy. You try."

"Gladly." The actor in question strides out into center stage. Someone on lighting fixes a spotlight on him.

"'A _dog_ of the _house _of _Mon_tague _moves_ me,'" he exclaims, placing his hand on his heart and throwing his arm out in a typical emotional fashion.

Everyone absolutely _collapses_ with laughter. It's as if we just witnessed a live production of the _Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail_ musical or something.

The play director, seemingly immune to the laughter, says, "Good, very good. Try the next line."

Without even needing to ask for the line, Iggy practically shouts, "'To _move_ is to _stir_, and to be _valiant_ is to _stand_. Therefore, if thou art _moved_, thou _runnest away_.'"

"Excellent. The next line?"

"'A _dog_ of that house shall _move_ me to _stand_. I will take the wall of any _man_ or _maid_ of _Montague's_.'"

I think I might be crying, that's how hard I'm laughing right now. Gazzy, who probably doesn't even know the meaning of the word "shame," is literally rolling around on the floor laughing. (And here I thought ROFL was just an expression.)

Ella, meanwhile, is the only one in the entire auditorium who looks completely bewildered.

"What's so funny?" she asks.

I'm laughing too hard to speak, but Gazzy, sitting next to us, manages, "Well – _hah_ – stand means – _ahaha_ – to – _hahee –_ well, you know – _heehaha_ – be aroused, and – _ahahahahaMMPH_–"

That last sound is from me clamping my hand over his mouth. "Don't _tell_ her!" I scold him. "Can you imagine what it would be like if both Iggy and Ella were perverts?"

"_Mmmph_, _mmm hmm_," he says, which I'm pretty sure means, "Yeah, good point."

I release him.

"And Max would probably kill me," he adds.

"Indeed."

"Oh, come on, guys. Why can't you tell me?" Ella protests.

"See, this is what you get for not reading fan fiction," I tell her. "So much knowledge you missed out on. Like the wonders of – well, I can't say it."

"TELL ME!"

Luckily, Iggy chooses that moment to deliver the line, "'Ay, the _heads_ of the _maids_, or their _maiden-heads_. Take it in what _sense_ thou _wilt_,'" which sends me into a new bout of laughter, saving me from explaining the wonders of male anatomy and bestiality to my friend.

"I think you get the idea," Mrs. Jasani says, wiping a tear of laughter from her own eye. "Now, Bob and Kyle, from the top, please."

Bob and Kyle – a.k.a. Sampson and Gregory – attempt their first and only major scene _again_ (though with slightly better "emotion" this time).

"'Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals.'"

"'No, for then we should be colliers.'"

"'I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw.'"

"'Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar.'"

"'I strike quickly, being moved.'"

"'But thou art not quickly moved to strike.'"

"'A dog of the house of Montague moves me.'"

"'To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand. Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runnest away.'"

"'A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's.'"

"'That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.'"

"''Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall.'"

"'The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.'"

"''Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids: I will cut off their heads.'"

"'The heads of the maids?'"

"'Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maiden-heads. Take it in what sense thou wilt.'"

"'They must take it in sense that feel it.'"

"'Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and 'tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.'"

"''Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor-John. Draw thy tool – '"

And Kyle, who has obviously been holding back the entire dialogue, falls on the floor laughing.

Everyone else (with the exception of Ella, who is still confused, and Iggy, who simply grins in a I-always-knew-pervertism-was-contagious sort of way) joins them.

Once the laughter has finally died down, Mrs. Jasani groans and face-palms. "So close –"

"Yet so far," we all chorus – and promptly begin to laugh again.

* * *

><p>"Come on, stupid computer. Load. I know you can do it. You're an amazing computer, even if the Movie Maker on you hates my guts, so come on, come on, LOAD ALREADY!"<p>

Yeah, I shout encouraging (and not-so-encouraging) things at my computer sometimes.

What?

Anyway, this afternoon, I'm going to research the people/robots/mutants/aliens/creatures/_things_ that attacked Iggy and Gazzy at the restaurant, based on what they told me yesterday night. The information I have (after two hours of stressful, difficult interrogation of two unwilling, ADHD bird-kids) is that the things are impossibly good fighters, don't seem to have any reaction to injuries, and fight with a weapon that is long and has a huge blade.

I know, it's pathetic.

Two hours, and that's all I got out of them.

Urgh.

At any rate, it's now time for me to practice my favorite sport: Googling. (Yes, it _is_ a sport, just like practicing the piano, crew, and chucking tomatoes. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise.)

I type "good at fighting no reaction to injury long weapon with large blade" into the search bar and hit "Search."

I don't expect many useful results – Seriously, how many websites have legitimate information about illegally created, scientifically advanced creatures who don't feel pain? – and I sure as heck don't get many.

A Wikipedia article about Eskrima, a description on how to win in a swordfight, and a blog entry about lies relating to knife fighting are some prime examples.

Oh, joy.

* * *

><p>After twenty minutes or so of fruitless searching, I stumble across an article simply titled "Fear" on a website of old scientific papers. I scan it and find it to be about how all that is really necessary for an unbeatable warrior is the complete lack of fear; without fear, the warrior will have nothing stopping himher/it from doing everything he/she/it can for victory.

Hmm … that sounds familiar …

The more I read the article, the more it seems like the creatures Iggy and Gazzy described to me were created on the basis of that article.

I look at the author: one Dr. Freja Melin. It seems that she has a few more articles on this site. Let's see … "Cruelty to Animals Isn't Cruelty if it's in the Name of Science" … "Generating Artificial Intelligences from Decaying DNA" … "The Chemical Components of a Human Soul" … "The Best Hybrids are Those that Can Kill" …

…

Well. I know what she has a Ph.D. in, and it's not biology.

Might as well Google her, though.

The first site that comes up is simply a list of the graduates of some Swedish scientific institute in 1984. The second, however, is much more interesting. It's written in Norwegian, but after I copy and paste it into Google Translate, it reads:

_**Blog of Bjorn Fjordsson, July Twelfth, 1997**_

**Remember that island I inherited from my grandfather, the one off the coast of Lofoten? Well, today, I finally got rid of it. A lady calling herself Dr. Freja Melin called about the ad I put on the land for cheap sale website. She was willing to pay a very high price for it, so of course I sold it to her.**

**Thank Odin I finally have that stupid little piece of rock with nothing on it but worthless ruins off my hands.**

A doctor of biology and genetics with a specialty in the cruel and the creepy buys an obscure island off the coast of Norway? There's something not quite right about this, but I'm not entirely sure what it is. Maybe the Flock will have some ideas. After all, they're probably used to dealing with people like this.

I'm about to email Gazzy about what I found, when …

"Are you done yet? You've been on the computer for hours."

"AAH! Iris, how long have you been sitting there?"

"I dunno … Ten minutes?"

"Why?"

"I'm bored."

"Can't you go be bored somewhere else?"

"But being bored near you is more fun."

"It's not fun for _me_."

"So? I don't care whether you're having fun or not."

"Well, you should care."

"Why?"

"You just should."

"Can I use the computer now?"

"NO!"

"I'm just going to sit here and watch you if you don't let me use it, and I know how much you hate that."

"GO AWAY!"

Little sisters. Gotta hate 'em, especially when they won't stop bothering you. Which is pretty much always.

* * *

><p>When Ella walks into the cafeteria at the beginning of lunch on Thursday, it's obvious that something big is going down. (Or up. Or sideways. Whatever floats your boat.) For one thing, she isn't simply walking; she's marching, like a soldier with some sort of higher purpose. For another thing, her normally happy-or-at-least-not-all-that-unhappy face is twisted into a grim scowl of determination. When you add those to the grip marks forming on her foam lunch tray, the ramrod-straight posture of her back, and her brown eyes currently glaring directly at one particular table at the back of the cafeteria, any five-year-old could see that this is not a normal lunch period for Ella Martinez.<p>

The girls Ella and I usually sit with at lunch, although certainly not the sharpest knives in the drawer (actually, they weren't knives at all; they were spoons), _were_ smarter than the average five-year-old, so they weren't particularly surprised when she strode by our table with no intention of sitting down whatsoever. They did try to protest it, though.

"Hey, Ella, where are you going?"

"Ella, aren't you going to sit with us?"

"If you don't sit with me, Ella, I won't partner with you in gym!"

"Ella, if you don't sit with me, you can't use my flashcards to study for the history test!"

"ELLA!"

I wish I could defend her, say that she has the right to sit wherever she wants to sit, or maybe even stand up and join her. But I can't. These are some of the most popular girls in my grade, and you can't just defy them. Unless you're incredibly, idiotically courageous (cough cough – _Ella_ – cough cough).

As if she can read my mind, Larissa leans over to me and hisses, "Don't get any ideas, Liz, or you'll go back to the way you were in middle school."

_Maybe I __**liked**__ the way I was in middle school, before Ella became friends with all you imbeciles and dragged me along with her, _I want to retort, but I can't.

I'm just not brave enough.

And then, there is a collective gasp.

I look up to see Ella's receding back. Okay, she refused to sit here. Is that honestly so surprising? I mean, after all, you guys really insulted her boyfriend two days ago –

Oh.

That's why.

She's giving our entire table the finger.

Ella is _dead_.

* * *

><p>After lunch, I managed to catch up to my friend and "excuse me" her away from Iggy's arm and into the nearest girls' bathroom.<p>

"What the heck were you doing earlier?" I ask her in a whisper.

"What are you talking about?" she replies, seeming confused.

"I mean, when you walked by our table and you … you … ah …"

"Flipped them off?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's quite obvious what I was doing, Liz," Ella says, her voice suddenly icy. "I was flipping them off. Telling them exactly what I thought of their stupid social standings."

"Oh," I mumble.

"The real question is," she continues, "why didn't you join me?"

"Why didn't I … what?"

"You heard me. Iggy's friends … sure, they're un-cool, but they don't care. They have a whole philosophy about it: I-don't-give-a-shit-ism." Her eyes start to shine as she describes this philosophy, like she's seem the light and wants to spread it to any friend, relative, or random hobo she can get to listen to her for a few minutes. "It's all about how popular people are total assholes and nobody really needs social standings and you should care about much more important things like grades and the environment and enjoying your life while you can! They converted me during lunch. You should become an I-don't-give-a-shit-ist, too, Liz … Liz?"

Finally. She noticed that I'm not listening.

"Liz, what is it?"

"I can't," I say quietly. Hmm, the floor has suddenly become captivating … I think I'll look at that instead of her face.

"Why not?" From the tone of her voice, she's baffled. "I mean, you're a geek, and I didn't think you liked associating with those people …"

"But they're my friends," I whisper. _And your friends, more than they were mine. Plus, even if they __**are**__ assholes, you completely betrayed them,_ I add silently.

"Well, I'm your friend, too."

"Yeah, but …"

"You're just going to have to choose: them or me."

Oh, God. I can't do that. I can't keep Ella and be socially murdered by the popular girls; I'm not brave enough, it would destroy me. But I can't lose Ella …

I stare at the floor like it has my answer. Unfortunately, it doesn't.

"I can't," is all I can tell her.

"If you really _were_ my friend, you would have chosen me already," Ella decides. Then I hear her receding footsteps, slow and heavy, begging me to stop them – stop her and beg her for mercy …

But I can't. I don't know what's stopping me – I want to, I really want to, but I can't. I feel like I'm frozen, as if I'm in one of those dreams where there's something coming for you, but you can't run away.

Only this time the thing is running away from me and I can't chase it.

"Good luck surviving there without me," she adds as an afterthought.

What am I going to do?

The bell rings. My next class is on the opposite side of the school; the time I spent talking to Ella I should've been using to walk there.

Oh, shit.

Okay, I know what I'll do: for now, I simply won't think about it.

_Yeah, great plan, Liz_.

* * *

><p><strong>First and foremost, I am so, so, incredibly sorry for the long wait between this chapter and the last one. I have an excuse, of course - I didn't get much time to write when I was in Russia, and when I got back, I had tons of make-up work to do - but still. If I stopped derping around on deviantART so much and procrastinating with MLIA I probably could've gotten this chapter done weeks ago.<strong>

**So, I'm sorry.**

**Unfortunately, I can't make it up to you by posting more quickly from now on, because ... well, do you know what starts in three days? Do you?**

**NaNoWriMo.**

**Otherwise known as The Death of My Free Time.**

**And I'm sure you can guess what that means.**

**I won't be writing any fan fiction for a month.**

**I mean, I'll be writing, of course, but it'll be my original story. (If you want to hear about it, by the way, feel free to ask me in a review or PM. The more people I can bounce my ideas off of, the better.)**

**I'm not going on total hiatus or anything, though - I actually have chapter sixteen written and beta'd (thank you to my awesome-beyond-words beta, Kina Kalamari, for that) and will post that some time in the middle of the month, so as not to make all of you _too_ mad at me. So there's that to look forward to.**

**In other, happier news, Halloween is on Monday! I'm excited because my costume is just plain amazing. Oh yes. No, I'm not telling you what it is. (But maybe if you review, I'll tell you ... hint hint.)**

**Ciao for now, everyone, and DFTBA. :)**

**(P.S. The bit where they're rehearsing scene one is something totally and completely inspired from the troubles my friend Lilah - FlyingSolo365 - and I are going through at the moment, since we decided to perform that scene for our English class. IT IS JUST AS HARD NOT TO LAUGH AS I WROTE IT IN THE FIC. xD)**


	16. Mowing the Lawn Isn't an Innocent Chore

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 16: Mowing the Lawn Isn't As Innocent as it Seems**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE … ER … TWO WEEKS SINCE THE LAST CHAPTER:**

**"You just moved to the Internet. It's great here; we get to live inside, where the weather is ALWAYS AWESOME!" – John Green**

"**ROTFLSHMSFOAIDMT means ****rolling ****on ****the ****floor ****laughing ****so ****hard ****my ****sombrero ****falls ****off ****and ****I ****drop ****my ****taco.****" – ****a ****MLIA-er**

"**WHERE ARE THE DUCKING NUMBERS? I MEANT FUCKING. Goddamit." "I dunno, I think ducking is better. And I think they ran away to Pluto." – my friend Kris and myself (about a question on my algebra 2 homework)**

"**Okay, so Lilah's older brother just walked by and we're talking about the jizz of various Hetalia characters." "Don't you love the way the world works?" – me and my friend Carolina**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This: ****"****The auditorium is now more quiet than a morgue – and everyone knows that dead people don't make any sounds whatsoever. Well, unless, of course, they're being possessed by evil aliens trying to take over the world while claiming that they're good aliens who only want to get back to their home planet …" In one of the older episodes of Doctor Who (I don't remember which one) there are a group of aliens who do just that.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:**** Kageegak (A.k.a. Michi.)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE:**** Tangled (It's quite easy. My beta actually found it when while she was beta-ing the chapter without even knowing that I was putting a Tangled reference in the chapter.)**

**Guess who got to 25,000 words on her NaNoWriMo story yesterday night? THIS BITCH. And in celebration, I'm posting this chapter for you lovely people. Enjoy, while I work my arse off writing some more.**

* * *

><p>"Gaaaaaaazzy!" Nudge calls from somewhere in the hallway.<p>

I slide down against the bathroom door and hope she didn't hear the _thud_. The clothes-and-hair-and-make-up-obsessed freak wants to paint my toenails. She already did my fingernails – in bright, sparkly pink – and tried to paint my toenails so that they "match," but I managed to escape the fishing line (where she got it, I don't want to know) holding me to the chair and lock myself in the upstairs bathroom before she could start. Now, I'm planning my revenge.

I'm thinking something with monkeys, peanut butter, and a chainsaw.

"GAZZY!" she repeats. "FREE FOOD!"

If she wants me to answer, she'll have to do better than that.

"SOME GIRL NAMED IRIS IS, LIKE, ON THE PHONE FOR YOU!"

I twist the doorknob furiously in an attempt to open the door, remember that I _locked_ the door, unlock the door, open the door, and run out into the hallway in the amount of time it takes a girl to have a mood swing when she's PMS-ing.

Oh, wait.

It was a trick, wasn't it …

Well, it's too late now. Nudge (and her fishing wire _of doom_) are within ten feet of me.

_Shit_.

"Nice trick," I compliment her.

"Trick?" she asks, confused.

"Yeah, you know … to get me to come out of the bathroom …"

"That, like, wasn't a trick." She holds up the kitchen phone to prove her point.

"… Oh."

I grab the phone, press it to my ear, and say, "Hello?"

"Hey, Gazzy. How's it going?"

Oh, my God. She _wasn't_ tricking me. Iris is actually on the phone. Iris called me. _Iris_ called me. Iris called _me_. _Iris_ called _me_. Iris. Called. Me. _AAAAAHHH –_

_**There has been a temporary break in Gazzy's ability to think thanks to the great amount of shock he has been recently sustaining. While he regains his mind, a word from one of our sponsors:**_

_**Do you like Hetalia?**_

_**Do you like USUK?**_

_**Do you like England?**_

_**Do you like America?**_

_**Do you like arses?**_

_**Do you like perverted jokes?**_

_**Do you like OwlinAMinor's writing?**_

_**Do you like tea?**_

_**Do you like hamburgers?**_

_**Do you like fluff?**_

_**Do you like drabble/oneshot series?**_

_**Do you like to laugh?**_

_**Do you like schadenfreude?**_

_**If you answered yes to any of those questions, then The Arse, a USUK drabble/oneshot series OwlinAMinor is currently working on, is for you! So what are you waiting for? Head over to her profile, scroll down to her story list, and click on that link! You'll love it, no matter what kind of person/place/thing/vegetable/mineral/alien/gender-neutral-chibi-thing you are!**_

_**(Note: Owl is not responsible for any fangirl-squealing, laughing, face-palming, or being-caught-reading-fanfiction-in-the-middle-of-the-night-by-your-parents-because-of-any-of-the-aforementioned-things caused by her drabble/oneshot series.)**_

_**And now, back to the story!**_

"It's … It's good," I manage.

"Great!" the goddess exclaims, sounding genuinely happy. Wow. She actually cares about my welfare. I could die happy. "Hey, do you want to come over?"

_Don't sound too eager. Don't sound too eager. Don't sound too eager. Don't -_

"I WOULD LIKE NOTHING MORE!"

"Um ... okay, then."

* * *

><p><em>Knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.<em>

…

_BANG._

"For the last time, we don't want any Girl Scout cookies – Oh, hi, Gazzy," Iris says, opening the door.

"H-h-hey," I stammer, trying not to stare at her.

And failing.

Miserably.

I mean, she looks – as Iggy would say – utterly _rapeable_ in short jean shorts and a blank tank top, with her hair in low pigtails, and an amazing, joyful, happy-to-see-you smile on her face. I am about ten seconds away from jumping her and kissing her until she _moans_ with pleasure …

(Yes, I asked Iggy what guys do to hot girls. You thought I'd forget, didn't you?)

Ahem.

Anyway.

"So, whaddya wanna do?" I ask nonchalantly. (At least, I _hope_ it was nonchalantly. That was what I was going for.)

She grins, a bit devilishly. Hmm, does she have a good idea for a pra –

"I was thinking _you_ could mow the lawn."

Wait, what? Hold up a second. She thought I could mow the lawn? Huh?

My expression must've conveyed my thoughts, since she continued, "Yes, well, Liz is off at a book club meeting or something and my parents are making me do it instead of her, but I _really_ don't feel like it, so I was thinking maybe you could …?"

"Yeah? Why should I?" I want to know. Mowing the lawn means manual labor. Manual labor means getting _exercise_. Gah. The horror_._

She thinks for a Jeopardy-theme-song-repetition or so, and then decides on, "I'll be your best friend."

Well, I'd prefer to be more than friends with her, but being best friends is a pretty good place to start … After all, girls fall in love with their best friends all the time in books and movies.

"Sure," I say.

Iris seems surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Liz always says that's a stupid reason for her to do something for me."

"Well, I'm not Liz."

"Thank God."

"Yeah."

We laugh awkwardly for a bit, and then she explains how to work the lawn mower. Somehow, I don't think that sort of thing is supposed to take ten minutes, but with her, it does. Don't get me wrong, I love Iris and all, but by the end of those minutes, I'm ready to do pretty much anything to escape.

Except strip.

Only Iggy would do that.

"– and the lawn mower is behind my dad's crate of vodka – yeah, he's Russian – and it might be hard to get out since it hasn't been used yet this year, but I think you should be able to do it, just don't' knock over any of the bikes, and –"

I really can't take this any more.

"Okay, thanks, see you in an hour!" I say quickly, running away.

She calls something after me, but I'm already out of earshot (or in the garage, whichever you prefer).

Why does she need to give me all those instructions, anyway? I _know_ how to use a lawn mower. Sure, I've never done it before, but all it is is pushing a mobile grass guillotine around a yard full of grass. How hard can it be?

* * *

><p>Very hard, apparently.<p>

"Damn you … fucking … lawnmower … why won't you … go up … the hill … damn it … why does this … damn yard … have to be so … fucking … hilly …"

I mean, does that _sound_ like the ramblings of someone who's having a good time?

Yeah, I thought not.

It's been almost an hour, and the job hasn't been getting any easier. I lost count of the many sticks I demolished ages ago; I've backed into at least three pricker bushes trying to turn the thing around; and the grass I _have_ managed to mow doesn't look even in the slightest, with little patches of un-mowed grass dotted around like kids who actually use their brains in a class of high-schoolers.

I can't believe I let Iris talk me into this.

Well, actually, I can, but …

ARGH.

FUCK MY LIFE.

Hmph, too late. It's already fucked up.

ALONG WITH THIS LAWNMOWER.

…

DAMN IT.

I try to distract myself from how much of an idiot I am by concentrating more on the mowing. I notice that one particular spot of grass around the huge tree in the center of the backyard looks like it hasn't been mowed in years.

Weird. Well, better to cut it now than never …

I push the mobile grass guillotine over there and through one side of the area of extremely long grass, then turn around and go back to the other si – AAH!

What's this strange, tingly feeling on my legs …?

Looking down, I find that the aforementioned lower appendages are covered in small, black and yellow bugs.

_Hornets_.

"AAAAAAAHHHHH!"

Did I ever mention that I'm ever-so-slightly afraid of bees?

* * *

><p>Once I'm done utterly panicking and loosing my mi – I mean, <em>calmly assessing the situation at hand<em>, I run screaming – I mean, _casually walk_ to the front yard, figuring the hornets will be too lazy to follow me.

Unfortunately, bees are not lazy creatures.

Damn.

So, here I am, running around like a crazed lunatic on crack – I mean, _standing and pondering how to get myself out of my relatively minor predicament_, when Liz and Adam amble up the path to the house.

Aw, they're holding hands. How cute …

… while I'm being eaten alive by tiny demon bugs!

Luckily, Liz notices me and demands, "What happened? Did the zombie apocalypse start or something?"

"H … ho … hor … horn … hornets!" I gasp.

She nods. "I see. Stay right there, and don't move. Don't even _breathe_. Well, okay, you can breathe, but not too much."

I try very hard not to breathe (which is difficult, because I'm hyperventilating) as she opens the garage, takes something out, and sprints back outside so that she's standing a few feet behind me.

"Adam, turn on the water, please," she orders.

Before I have the chance to wonder what she meant by that, her boyfriend (who, up until now, was enjoying the no-doubt hilarious sight of my distress) dashes into the garage, knocking over a couple of empty bottles on his way.

There is a squeak, like the sound of a metal valve being opened.

And then …

_FOOSH!_

My back is totally drenched with water.

"So, what were you doing back there?" Liz inquires as she continues to aim what must be a hose at my back.

"Um … Mowing the lawn," I say.

She sighs. "Of course you were. Did Iris blackmail you into it?"

"Um … Maybe?"

"Right. By the way, I'm going to have to keep spraying you until all the hornets have been drowned. And in the meanwhile … IRIS!"

"WHAT?" the aforementioned girl calls from somewhere inside the house.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU WARN GAZZY ABOUT THE HORNET'S NEST? YOU KNOW IT'S THERE. I RAN INTO IT LAST SUMMER!"

"I WARNED HIM, HE JUST DIDN'T HEAR ME!"

"WELL, WHOSE FAULT IS IT THAT HE WAS MOWING _OUR_ BACKYARD IN THE FIRST PLACE?"

"HE DIDN'T _HAVE_ TO AGREE TO IT!"

"AND YOU DIDN'T _HAVE_ TO SUGGEST IT!"

By this time, my entire body has been sprayed with water, and all the hornets are dead or gone or both. The stings – I have at least ten – don't hurt all that much, but they kind of itch, which is annoying.

Liz and Iris are still yelling back and forth. Why Iris doesn't just walk outside so that they can talk at a normal, non-headache-inducing volume, I have no idea.

Adam finds the entire thing absolutely hilarious – Not that I blame him, of course.

I wisely decide to make my escape with my sopping clothes, sopping ego, and decision to never step foot in that backyard again, no matter _what_ Iris bribes me with.

* * *

><p>A bloodcurdling scream in the middle of the night is probably one of the most cliché occurrences in a stereotypical horror movie.<p>

But that doesn't make it any less scary.

I lie face-down on my bed/couch/thing, eyes wide, shivers racing up and down my spine desperately hoping that it was a dream, a hallucination, my hyper-active imagination … Anything but real. Unfortunately, my imagination isn't nearly that cliché – it's much, much more creative.

Okay, so if I didn't imagine it, what happened?

I go over rational, normal possibilities in my mind, trying to calm down: _Iggy discovered that we ran out of Bacon. Nudge found a giant spider. Max dreamed that one of us died. Angel lost one of her stuffed animals. Dylan found that he was suddenly bald. A cat was stepped on. A drug addict had to go without cocaine for an entire week. A girl is being raped. …_

Then there's a _CRASH_, a _THUD_, and a war cry that belongs to the one and only Maximum Ride:

"FOR EDWAAAAAAARD!"

Yeah, Max is a fangirl of he-who-must-not-be-named-and-no-I'm-not-talking-about-Lord-Voldemort-because-Voldemort-is-way-more-awesome-than-the-sparkly-fairy-will-ever-be. Don't judge her … too harshly. Unless, of course, you have a death wish …

Anyway, now I know _for sure_ that I'm not imagining things; I hate that ninety-seven-year-old-virgin too much to even think his name. I leap up, grab the nearest possible weapon – the frying pan Iggy used to cook Bacon for dessert a few hours ago – and race upstairs to Max's and Dylan's temporary room.

In the time it takes me to notice Dylan's unconscious, naked-except-for-boxers form sprawled on the floor, Max's teary, scowling face, a broken window, and … Is that an arm? … something pokes into my back with so much force that I nearly fall over. Then, whatever poked me in the back _leaps over my head_ and glares at me from the front.

It looks like Astrid from _How to Train Your Dragon_, complete with a long braid hanging down its back, a dirty tunic and pants, combat boots, very angry features, and a war ax stuck in its belt. There are some distinguishing differences that tell me it isn't Astrid's clone, though. There's the fact that the braid is bright auburn, for one thing. There's the fact that its eyes are totally gray with no pupils or whites, for another. And, of course, there's the fact that I can't tell if _it_ is a he or a she.

"REDWAAAAALL!" I cry, charging at it and head-butting its stomach. _Ouch_. I think that hurt me more than it hurt it. Without any semblance of a change in expression, it pulls out its ax and swings it directly at my neck. I duck. It thrusts the ax towards my chest. I sidestep.

While most fighters would get angry at this lack of reward for their offensive moves, this one simply continues to jab, thrust, and swing in my direction. I continue to avoid them and even manage to land a punch or two, but it doesn't show any pain and I soon find myself backed up against the wall.

_Oh, shit._

Suddenly, I realize something: I'm still holding a frying pan.

The … um … what do I call it … Viking-ish-type-thing brings down its ax for the final strike, but I bring up my new (or, well, newly discovered, at least) weapon and counter.

_CLANG!_ "Take that, you _insert creative insult here_!"

It tries again, I counter again.

_BONG! _"Yeah, who's the _real_ Viking in this fight?"

The fight goes on like this for a few Jeopardy-theme-song-repetitions until I find myself in the same position as before, only in the opposite role. Somehow, I managed to fence with a Viking-ish-type-thing, frying pan to war ax, and successfully corner it.

Yeah, I know, I'm awesome.

In a stroke of brilliance (must be the fighting awakening my brain), I grab the Viking-ish-type-thing's ax-arm with one hand and conk it over the head with the frying pan with the other. It sinks to the ground, unconscious, but I keep hitting it until I'm sure I've sent it to the Great Beyond. Or Hades. Or wherever Vikings go when they die. (Valhalla, right? Or is it Hel? Whatever.)

I glance over to my right to see Iggy, also holding a frying pan and standing over an unconscious/dead Viking-ish-type-thing.

He grins, as if he can see me looking at him. "Frying pans, right? Who knew?"

Before I can respond, I'm attacked by two more of the things.

Oh, yay. Just lovely. Abso-bally-lutely lovely.

* * *

><p>When you read about it in books or see it in movies, fighting looks really awesome; it's full of slow-motion, near-misses, intricate (and usually high-up) battle settings, fearless characters, and epic background music. In real life, it's not like that at all; it's a hell of a lot more painful. Book and movie characters never notice their wounds until they're done fighting. That's bullshit. Yes, battling for your life gives you an adrenaline rush like nobody's business, but it doesn't make you forget about the gaping hole in your leg. Or how tired you are. Or how long it's been since you last ate. Or how badly you need to pee.<p>

Basically, fighting isn't fun. Particularly when your opponents don't seem to tire, feel pain, or show any emotion whatsoever – and their reinforcements just keep coming.

I drop one with a well-placed whack to the … ah … vital regions. Half a second of reprieve follows in the time it takes for another one to rush at me and jab me in the back of the neck. I sigh and begin sword-fighting it, ax-to-frying-pan.

For no apparent reason whatsoever, there are two _THUD_s loud enough to be heard in the midst of the Flock's war cries, _SLAM_s, _BANG_s, and other various fighting sounds.

"Hey, you!" shouts a voice I thought I'd never hear again. "Yeah, you with the face! LEAVE HER ALONE!"

This is followed by several gunshots and another bloodcurdling scream that I'm now positive comes from the one and only Maximum Ride.

* * *

><p><strong>ONLY I AM SO AWESOME THAT I WOULD PUT A SHAMELESS PLUG FOR MY OWN STORY IN THE MIDDLE OF ANOTHER ONE OF MY STORES.<strong>

**That is all.**

**Review if you don't not love me. :)**


	17. LOOK, A DISTRACTION

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 17: LOOK, A DISTRACTION!**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE … ER … I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW LONG IT'S BEEN:**

**"You got period, chopsticks." - Patrick Seitz in the bloopers of the Paint it White! dub**

**"For me, Christmas spirit is something that starts at about four in the afternoon on Christmas eve and goes until ten or so the next morning." - my Algebra teacher**

**"... take a look at these problems, _s'il vous plait_. That's German." - also my Algebra teacher**

**"THIS NAPKIN. IT WILL BE THROWN AT YOUR FACE. Well, it would be, if I wasn't lazy and had horrible aim ..." - me, to my sister**

**"Your sock is untied." - me**

****WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: _"Frying pans, right? Who knew?" _Do I even have to explain it any more?****

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: ****_I'm raining on your parade _(Or she with the cool username. :D)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: AC/DC.**

**There will be a long A/N at the end of the chapter.**

**Consider yourself warned.**

* * *

><p>I'm in the middle of a strangely pleasant dream about dancing cucumbers when Fur Elise begins to play for no apparent reason. It's not even a <em>good<em> version of Fur Elise; it's all tinny, muffled, and full of static, like that of a telephone ringtone.

Oh.

I push away the dream and am greeted inhospitably by a curtain of darkness. Fur Elise is still playing, but it's louder than before.

"Unghurrgah …"

_Phone … phone … Where's the phone ..._

"Nahnugraaaah …"

_Not phone … tissue box …_

"Mnnnffaaahgnnuung …"

_Not phone … alarm clock …_

"GahrunghuhmnfAAH!"

_Phone! Ah, cold on ear …_

"Wha?"

"Liz, are you awake?"

It sounds like Ella, and she sounds really worried about something. But somehow, I can't bring myself to care. _Want … sleep …_

"Liz?"

"Nnnghhmmnnnffuggh …"

"_And I was like, baby, baby, baby, ohhh _–"

"AAAH!"

"– _like, baby, baby, baby, no _–"

"MAKE IT STOP!"

"So, you're awake?"

"I am now, thanks to you. Bloody wanker."

"And proud of it! Anyway, you have to get over here right now."

"I do? Why? And why are you speaking to me, for that matter?"

"Why _shouldn't_ I be speaking to you?"

Okay, this must be serious. If Ella doesn't remember our fight, it's definitely serious; she can hold a grudge for months (unlike me, soft-hearted wimp that I am).

"Um … Because of that fight we had …" I remind her.

"What fi – oh." She remembers. "Well, that doesn't matter now. We've got much bigger problems that that. Like, life-or-death problems."

* * *

><p>Sprinting through the darkest part of the night chased by the music pounding from my headphones is one of the most amazing feelings I have ever experienced. It's a perfectly mixed concoction of adrenaline, fear, and exhilaration that makes me feel as if I'm flying. <em>And the best part is,<em> I think as I leap over a sewer opening and narrowly miss a lamp post, _that there's nobody to stop me._

Sneaking out of the house was actually a lot easier than you might think; I simply put on a pair of shoes, grabbed my iPod, my notebook, and a pen (you never know when you'll need to write something down), padded quietly down the stairs, slowly opened the front door, and ran out, all the while feeling like a ninja on a stealth mission. That, the fact that the streets are so quiet, the fact that a whisper would sound like a ghost, and the fact that I haven't encountered any awake human beings yet put me in a great mood, considering the circumstances.

The circumstances.

_Oh, God, why can't I run any faster?_

* * *

><p>Ella's house would be easy to find even if I haven't been there hundreds of times in the past ten years. Having all the lights on at two A.M. does that.<p>

I hobble up the front steps – my adrenaline gave out a block and a half ago – and whack on the dark brown door. It opens to reveal a frazzled-looking Nudge, complete with hair sticking up all over her head, wide, doe-ish eyes, and what might possibly be a blood stain on her t-shirt.

"Thank Google you're here," she says breathlessly.

_Thank Google?_ I wonder, but I don't say anything.

We walk inside and ascend the front stairs as Nudge tells me about what's going on.

"I really hope you can, like, help, or something. They've been arguing ever since he got here, which was, like, hours ago. Well, okay, maybe it was only, like, twenty minutes ago, but it _seems_ like hours ago! And they aren't even arguing about _them _any more. They used to be, but now it's just, like, random! I swear I heard him say something about purple polka-dotted llamas a minute ago! And Dylan's no help, since he's still, like, unconscious, and Gazzy's no help, since he's Gazzy, and Iggy and Ella are no help, since they've been, like, making out in Ella's room ever since the fighting stopped, with only a break when I begged Ella to call you, and Angel and Total and that other guy are just, like, sitting there with a popcorn bowl, just _watching_ the argument, and Dr. Martinez is, like, still sleeping, well, that's what Ella said, but I think she's probably drunk since, like, nobody could sleep through that, and ... yeah, I'm really glad you're here."

I'm not sure how much of that I understood, but it does seem quite good that I'm here. See, among my friends, I'm a sort of therapist. I'm apparently quite good at helping people out, giving advice, solving conflicts, and the like. It's probably because I write so much – if one tries to create and write about characters with realistic human emotions enough, one tends to gain a fairly decent understanding of actual human emotions. From what Ella told me on the phone, the two people I can now hear squabbling could definitely use a therapist like me.

"Oh, yeah? Well, I still can't believe you drank an entire bottle of ketchup when we were eleven!"

"Iggy dared me to do it!"

"So that means you _had_ to do it. Of course. Stupid boys with their stupid male egos."

"No, it's not like that!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really! I did it because of the reward he offered me!"

"Reward?"

"A … um … picture of you … in a … um … dress …"

"So _that's _why he made me put on a dress! You guys are such _perverts_!"

As I step into the room Max and Dylan are currently living in, I can see the two debaters. One is definitely Maximum Ride herself, although her brown-gold hair is a total mess, her arm is bandaged, and there are cuts and bruises all over her body. Her wings – beautiful, tan, hawk wings fourteen feet across – are out. It's strange; even though she's arguing, she has a sort of _glow_ around her, as if she's actually quite happy.

Hmm … My love-hate senses are tingling …

The person with whom Max is arguing is a guy about her age whose appearance is the very definition of emo: long, ebony hair with bangs that almost completely cover his dark eyes, black jeans, a black t-shirt, a pained expression, scratches on his arms, and a depressed, slumping sort of body posture. Even his wings – which, at what I estimate to be sixteen feet across, are very impressive – are the color of a moonless night sky. He reminds me of a panther; sleek, lithe, dark, and obviously powerful. And he's also fairly cute, in a depressing, lonely sort of way.

Glancing around the room some more, I find evidence of the battle that must have taken place here earlier. The windows are cracked; broken glass is everywhere; a lamp is toppled over; there are red stains on the carpet that are most likely blood (though I'd rather not think about that); Dylan lies, unconscious, on top of his sleeping bag; and someone – or some_thing_ – else lies unconscious on top of Max's.

Meanwhile, the dark guy steps forward and his hand rises as if to slap Max in the face, but at the last second, he realizes what he's doing and pulls back. She flashes him a sugar-coated smile before doing the job herself, slapping _him_ in the face afterwards for good measure.

Okay. This really needs to stop before someone gets hurt.

"Stop," I say, attempting to sound commanding.

It doesn't work. I try, "Cease," "Halt," "Shut up," and "STOP!" to no avail.

Nudge notices my dilemma and says, "Let me handle this."

I'm wondering what she can do that I can't when she yells, "LOOK, IT'S JAMES PATTERSON!" and points in the general direction of the window.

"WHERE?" Max and the unidentified emo guy shout in unison, turning to the window with expressions on their faces that can only be described as murderous.

Nudge grins. "Works every time."

"Who's James Patterson?" I ask.

Max shrugs. "We don't actually know. It's weird; whenever we hear his name, we get really angry, like this Patterson guy did something horrible to us or something."

"That _is_ weird," I agree.

"It's almost – but not quite – creepier than the thought of Edward Cullen watching you sleep," the guy says.

"That's not creepy, that's sweet!" Max argues.

"A guy watching you sleep is sweet?"

"Yeah! He's watching over me and protecting me, like a guardian angel!"

"A guardian pedophile, more like."

And they're at it again.

I sigh.

_Please God don't let this destroy my vocal cords I kind of like them the way they are thanks very much …_

"LOOK, A DISTRACTION!" I point at myself. _I'm going to have a sore throat tomorrow._

Both of them stare at me, as if noticing me for the first time.

"Guys, you're going to stop arguing," I tell them in what I imagine is a confident, demanding voice. "You're going to go downstairs. You're going to eat something. And then, you're going to talk. Not argue, _talk._ About what happened earlier tonight. Because in case you haven't noticed, there are more pressing matters than whether or not Edward Cullen is a creepy stalker – even though he is, please don't kill me, Max."

"Who are you?" the guy asks. "Actually, scratch that. I don't care who you are – you're right."

"Huh," I muse. "Nobody's ever called me 'Right' before. Hi, I'm Right." I extend my hand to the guy.

He shakes it. "Nice to meet you, Right," he says with a grin that somehow doesn't look at all out of place on his otherwise-depressing features. "I'm Your Worst Nightmare."

Max rolls her eyes. "Otherwise known as Fang."

* * *

><p>As it turns out, the open-all-night take-out pizza parlor a few blocks over is our savior, because as the Flock (plus Fang and minus Dylan, who's still unconscious) devours some pepperoni-infused goodness like there's no tomorrow, I find it surprisingly easy to talk to them.<p>

"So, Fang, would you mind telling me who you are, exactly?" I inquire of him, having already explained who I am in relation to the Flock.

"Nah, you deserve to know," he replies, polishing off a particularly large piece of pizza and reaching for another. "I used to be part of the Flock, but a couple years ago, we had some … differences and I left. I started my own flock – we call it Fang's Gang – by meeting mutants with who I'd communicated via my blog and – _Hey, Gazzy, I called that piece first – _asking them to join me. As it turned out, my gang had to work with the Flock to defeat some evil bad guys_ –_ _Yes, I definitely did – _but after that, Max and I agreed that it would be best if we stayed separate. That's the short version."

Why do I get the feeling that it was less of an agreement and more of a five-year-old-esque argument resolution? (_"I'm never speaking to you again!" "Fine! I'm never speaking to you again either!"_)

Hmm. Anyway.

"How did you find us here?" Iggy asks. "We thought we covered our tracks pretty well."

"Actually, I was following the things that attacked you," Fang explains. "We caught wind of them destroying a science lab up in Oregon and were concerned, so I volunteered to spend a month or so tracking them and seeing what I could find out about them, their powers, their motives, their leader, so on and so forth. Oh, and I brought that guy with me," he adds, pointing to Ratchet, who was introduced to me earlier as a member of Fang's Gang with super senses.

"That makes sense," I say, grabbing a slice of my own and taking a bite. It's not particularly fresh, but it's warm and full of tomatoes – one could do a whole lot worse at four o'clock in the morning. "Do you want me to share the information we have with you?"

"That would be great, thanks," he says.

I reach inside the small back-pack I brought with me, take out my notebook, flip to the appropriate page, and hand it to the dark-haired Avian-American.

"Viking-ish-type things," he reads aloud. "Origin: unknown. Powers: don't feel pain, super fighting skills – technique and strength, enhanced determination. Weaknesses: unknown. Yeah, that isn't any more than I know."

"We're about to know a lot more, though," Ratchet breaks into our conversation.

"We are?"

"Yeah. Now that the pizza's all finished – _sniff sniff, it had such a good life and tasted so awesome –_ we can go interrogate that one mutant upstairs who's still unconscious."

"Oh, yeah, we can," everyone realizes.

And before I can shout, "Wait for me, I'm not done yet," the kitchen is abandoned and the staircase is full of arguing, pushing, shoving bird-kids.

* * *

><p>The Viking-ish-type-thing is lying on the floor of Max's and Dylan's room, where we left it, still unconscious. I can't tell whether it's male or female; it has long, golden-blond hair tied back in a messy braid, leather armor-type clothing, combat boots, and a sturdy, determined sort of face that could belong to either gender. From what the Flock members told me, pretty much all of them looked like that. Viking-ish-type-thing is certainly the right name for them; this one definitely looks like Astrid from <em>How to Train Your Dragon<em>, if Astrid was evil.

"Okay, so who wants to interrogate this thing?" I wonder aloud.

There is a chorus of "I will"s.

I shouldn't have asked.

"Leave this to me, guys," Max says. "I'm the leader, after all."

"Well, if we're going by that philosophy, I should do it," Fang argues.

"Is your gang here to support you?"

"I am!" Ratchet exclaims.

"You don't count," Max tells him.

Ratchet heads over to slump in a corner, muttering something about how a pretty girl rejected his awesomeness and his life is now over as a result while the pretty girl in question and her rival leader continue to bicker like a pair of sisters stuck in a car together for three hours with no entertainment whatsoever. (I know from experience that that leads to an inhumane amount of bickering over the most insane things. Who knew that the pronunciation of the word "orange" could spawn a half-hour-long argument? Not me, that's for certain. But anyway.)

"Hey, I think it's waking up." Gazzy, leaning over the mutant, interrupts their argument.

They look at him, then at the mutant, then at him again.

"You think?" Fang says sarcastically. "He looks like he's been electrocuted."

"That's definitely not because we electrocuted him with some spare television cables, nope, not at all," Iggy replies, hiding aforementioned spare television cables behind his back.

There is a symphony of palms smacking foreheads.

"I'll let it go for now," Max tells the two troublemakers sternly, hurrying over to kneel beside the Viking-ish-type-thing.

"Hello," she greets it softly. "We don't want to hurt you. We just want to know who you are and why you've been trying to kill us."

The thing stares blankly at her, eyes wide enough to be almost cute. Almost. The fact that they're completely white and murderous doesn't help with the cute thing, really.

"You're going about it all wrong." Fang sits down next to Max. His face seems to become ten shades darker as he says in what should be known as the Voice of Doom, "You will tell us who you are and why you've been trying to attack us or that shock will feel like kisses from your mommy. Now start talking_._"

Something in Fang's tone of voice conveyed his meaning to the mutant, and it begins to babble:

"_Nei!__Aldri__!__Jeg vil aldri__fortelle__deg!__Du__får__ingenting ut av__meg! Mistress__forbyr__det!__Du kan__torturere meg__,__kan du gjøre meg__ligge påen seng av__varm__Coles__, kan du__drukne__meg, du__kan true__familien min__,__men du__får ingenting.__INGENTING__! INGETING! INGETING! INGETING!_"

The "_INGETING!_"s have become a furious chant, almost a war cry. They're about to become high-pitched enough to break glass when they're suddenly cut short.

By a knife penetrating the mutant's chest.

A knife stabbed by none other than Dylan, now standing over the thing with a murderous look in his eyes and a terrible smile on his face.

Blood pours out of the wound like a package of ketchup stabbed with a fork, the thing's eyes are still open, shock somehow embedded into them even though they have no pupils, and …

Oh, God, I'm going to be sick.

* * *

><p>When I return from barfing up the pizza I ate only minutes earlier, I find a full-scale argument already in place.<p>

"I can't _believe_ you just up and killed it!" Fang is exclaiming.

"How was he supposed to know that we were interrogating it? He had been unconscious!" Max protests.

"He could've used his brains!" Fang retorts. "Oh, I forgot, he has none."

"It's hard to take that as an insult when the person – if you can be called a person – insulting me is stupid enough to try to play got-your-nose with Voldemort," Dylan says.

"Look who's talking, Mr. Stupid-Enough-to-Kill-Our-Hostage."

"Maybe I wasn't aiming to kill him. Maybe I was aiming for you. Maybe I thought I was having a nightmare and the only way to end it would be to destroy you. Why the hell are you here, anyway?"

"Maybe I'm on a mission from God to beat your stupid, angelic face into the ground."

…

Wow. And here I thought it couldn't get worse than a disagreement between Fang and Max.

Well, time to use my slowly-perishing vocal cords again …

"LOOK, A DISTRACTION!" I shout, pointing to myself.

"WHERE?" Both of them turn to look at me.

"Thank you," I say, hoping I don't sound as awkward about having two good-looking teenage boys staring at me as I feel. "Now if you don't mind shutting up, we have to figure some things out. Like what that mutant was saying before you, Dylan, killed it – not that I'm accusing you or anything," I add, glancing at Max's murderously glaring face.

"It sounded like it was talking in, like, some Scandinavian language," Nudge says. "Like, Lithuanian or something."

"Nudge, Lithuania isn't in Scandinavia," Angel corrects her.

"It's not? Then where is it?"

"It's one of the Baltic States."

"Baltic States? Do they, like, have big balls or something?"

"_I've got big balls, oh I've got big balls, they're such big balls, fancy big balls, and he's got big balls, and she's got big balls, and we'__v__e got the biggest –_"

"Iggy, shut up."

"But I was singing a perfectly appropriate song about the highlights of high society!"

"Right. And how many perverted implications did that statement have?"

"Um …"

Luckily, the master pervert is saved from death-by-Max as the door to the room bursts open, revealing a tired, staggering, very drunk Ms. Martinez.

"You kids having fun?" she asks us, failing to notice the time of night and the three extra people in her house.

"Yes, Mom," Ella answers quickly.

"Okay, well, don't break anything," she says, closing the door behind her.

"…"

"What was that?" Fang wonders.

"Oh, um, that was my mom," Ella replies, blushing.

"Is she usually … um …"

"Drunk? Not usually. But it's been happening a lot more lately since the last time Jeb was here."

"Jeb? As in …?"

"Yeah, that Jeb," Max says. "Yeah, we have a bit of explaining to do …"

* * *

><p>It's five A.M. when I finally go home, somehow not tired but knowing I will be as soon as the first bell rings at school. Ella sees me out as the others continue to bicker upstairs.<p>

"Am I forgiven?" I ask her in a small voice as she's about to close the door on me.

At first, I think she didn't hear me, but then she re-opens the door to ask a question of her own: "Are you going to ditch them?"

"Well, I want to, but I don't know how," I reply.

…

Ella grins. "Good," she says, almost proudly. "And as for how … well, just do what I did."

I don't think I'm brave enough to do _exactly_ what she did, but I can try. When I tell her that, she grabs me in a hug.

"Welcome to the church of I-don't-give-a-shit-ism. You're going to love it here."

* * *

><p><strong>For future reference, NEVER EVER EVER offer to give your friends Hetalia one-shot requests for Christmas. It will be fun and they will love it, but it will take up so much of your time. SO MUCH TIME. ARGH.<strong>

**(Long story short, I wrote eight one-shots, all at least 1,500 words, in the space of two weeks. Actually quite a bit harder than NaNoWriMo, because that was all one story, where as this was eight different pairings, eight different situations, eight different perspectives ...)**

**(And then, the fact that Kina wasn't able to beta this chapter until just a few days ago didn't really help either in the updating scheme.)**

**Both of us are sorry, and will try to do a better job with the chapters in the future.**

**Oh, and happy holidays, everyone! (I'm planning a holiday MR one-shot as a present for all of you awesome reviewers. Plus, if you're a fan of Hetalia, or even if you aren't, you can check out the one-shots I wrote for my friends, which I'll be posting after I post this.)**

**What did you get for Christmas/Hanukkah/whatever holiday you celebrate? I got the cheapest version of Sony Vegas movie-editing software (which would be awesome if my computer didn't hate it for some reason), my sister's old iPod, a giant British flag, a couple of posters, a Despicable Me minion plushie, British flag socks, a couple of Amazon and Barnes and Noble gift cards (which I've already used up buying books xD), and an Eiffel tower charm. **

**(Lilah, I love you for the British flag and the minion, and hate you for the Eiffel tower. Just for the record, I put it on my dart board. :D)**

**Haha.**

**Anyway.**

**I hope you enjoyed the long chapter, and I _will_ write more over winter break. (There's a Grandmano poster hanging in my room that says "Stop fucking procrastinating or Nonna's gonna teach you a lesson about responsibility WITH HER M-16." for that express purpose.)**

**Review?**


	18. Best Peacemaking Tactic Ever

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 18: Best Peacemaking Tactic Ever**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE UNFORTUNATELY LONG TIME IT HAS BEEN SINCE CHAPTER 17:**

"**Okay, so we're betting nothing and our answer is a duck. Agreed?" – a guy in my chem class (about how our team would approach Final Jeopardy)**

"**Can you see from back there? How many heads do I have?" "Three." "Oh, good, you _can_ see." – my algebra teacher and a guy in my class**

"**I think your pants just blinded me." – a girl in my Mandarin class (For the record, the pants in question were bright, neon green.)**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: "_I've got big balls, oh I've got big balls, they're such big balls, fancy big balls, and he's got big balls, and she's got big balls, and we've got the biggest –_" is part of the lyrics to the song Big Balls by AC/DC.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:****_Kageegak_**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: James Bond**

**This chapter is quite long, so enjoy! :)**

**By the way, there's a slight change in this one: instead of using the line breaks in the FFnet document editor, I kept in the breaks that I used when I originally typed the chapter. This executive decision was made because creative breaks are more awesome than regular lines, ****_da_****? ^J^**

**FIRST BREAK OF THE CHAPTER! LET THERE BE TOMATOES OF CELEBRATION!**

"We scared them off," Max said.

"They won't, like, be back," Nudge said.

"We totally kicked their asses," Iggy said.

"They're done for," Ratchet said.

"We won," Fang said.

"Those wimps won't show there faces around here anymore," Ella said.

"It's only logical that they retreat," Liz said.

So, naturally, they're back the next night.

Only this time, I awake to a war ax scraping into my neck and a misshapen, filthy Viking-ish-type-thing face staring blankly into my own.

What an _amazing_ sight to wake up to.

… _Not._

The battle that ensues is fairly boring: punching, kicking, whacking, dodging, attempting to not be backed into a corner, being backed into a corner anyway, yelling obscene war cries – you know, normal battle stuff. It's pretty much the same as last night, except there are more of the irritating mutants and less frying pans. (Iggy and I demolished them yesterday, something Ella's maternal unit wasn't exactly pleased about.)

Luckily, Fang still has his gun, so he's able to shoot through the things fairly quickly. Plus, thanks to Liz, we now know that our opponents aren't particularly intelligent and we can defeat them by confusing them with strange and/or complex fight patterns, then strangling them when they pause to figure out what the hell we're doing. I even manage to provide our side with a secret weapon – apparently, Vikings really, really, _really_ don't like stink bombs. (You would think they'd be used to it after eating rotten fish on a daily basis, but no, they default to the fetal position the second I release one of my "talents.")

If I wasn't so worried about the small chance I have of dying, I might be really enjoying this.

Eventually, we've successfully murdered all of the sleep-invaders without destroying the house and are gathered in and around the kitchen and adjacent family room for some future-plan debates and celebratory hot chocolate.

"Okay, so, these whatever-they-ares –" Max begins, slamming her mug of hot chocolate down on the counter.

"Viking-ish-type-things," I interrupt.

"Yeah, sure, whatever – whatever you want to call them, they're seriously starting to piss me off."

"And you're only saying this _now_?" Iggy asks skeptically.

"Well, yeah," our fearless leader replies. "I figured that they'd leave us alone after last night, but _nooo_, they had to come and attack and wake me up in the middle of the night _for the second time in a freaking row._"

Dylan laughs. "Yeah, we all know how you need your beauty sleep, dear."

She looks up at him in a way that could be kindly described as flirtatious and unkindly described as so-damned-sweet-it'd-rot-my-teeth-if-I-tried-to-eat-it-God-I-wish-Iris-would-look-at-_me_-like-that. "Are you saying you think I'm beautiful?"

"Beautiful doesn't quite cover it," Justin Bie- Oops, I mean _Dylan_ – shoots back, complete with hundred-watt grin. "I was thinking more along the lines of exquisite, angelic, perfect, divine …"

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Max replies.

"Really?" Dylan leans down to give her a quick kiss – which she doesn't punish him for, instead pulling him down for a longer one. Both of them have smiles wide enough to fit Russia in its entirety when they finally emerge from their little romantic bubble.

Ugh. Please, somebody, stop this now before I barf.

And before you ask, yes, I have to deal with this pretty much every single day.

Yes, it's just as disgusting as it sounds.

I mean, at least with Fang there was the constant bickering to dissuade the mushy-ness of the making out and the occasional sweet words, but with Dylan, it's just all fluff, all the time – an endless cycle of stupid, cliché flirtation and gushy words of love straight out of a cheap romance novel.

…

Speaking of Fang …

Mr. I'm Not Emo, Those Cuts On My Arm Are From My Nonexistent Cat is currently glaring at Max and Dylan like he's a New Yorker and they went to a New York subway wearing Red Sox hats. (Which, by the way, is a terrible thing to do. Trust me, I know. You get pelted with eggs.)

Oh, crap. Peacemaking tactics, go!

Um …

What are my peacemaking tactics, again?

…

Do I even _have_ any peacemaking tactics?

…

Oh, shit.

Well, there's always the last resort method. And, as Fang's and Dylan's staring contest has almost reached the point of actual fighting, I think the last resort method can be used.

Okay, here goes nothing.

_**FAAART.**_

Cue eight hands (plus one paw) grabbing their owner's noses and a subsequent cacophony of complaints.

"Aw, Gazzy, dude, did you really have to do that?"

"That seriously stinks. Like, literally."

"Really, what the _hell_ was that for?"

"My nose will never be the same!"

"Well, I wanted to keep Fang and Dylan from fighting," I explain nervously, hoping I won't be seriously injured or anything.

Fang scoffs. "As if I would ever stoop to the level of fighting Mr. Perfect here."

"I could easily take you," aforementioned Mr. Perfect protests.

"Oh, yeah? With what? Your singing? Oh, I'm _soo_ scared."

"Guys!" Nudge interrupts before Dylan can make a comeback. "Gazzy's right. You shouldn't fight when we have, like, a crisis on our hands! I mean, you have to admit that this is a bit creepy. Not only have these weird Viking-ish-type-things tracked us from our old place to here, they attacked us two nights in a row, even though we, like, _totally_ kicked their asses the first time. And all these fights are making me, like, über-tired. Like, I probably won't be able to stay awake in school if this happens again – and I have a big test on Monday. We have to do something before we get, like, really hurt! We can't just let them keep attacking us and wearing us down, you know?"

…

Silence falls as we all stare at our resident chatterbox, who isn't even winded by her long, breathless speech.

Finally, Iggy says, "Sorry, Nudge, I don't speak faster-than-Snape-confronted-with-shampoo speed."

She rolls her eyes, then repeats: "Weee haaave tooo deeeciiide sooome sooort ooof plaaan befooore weee geeet wooorn doooown aaaand sooomeoooooone geeets huuurt. That slow enough for you?"

"Yes, thanks," he deadpans.

Max glares at him. "Well, she has a point," she says. "So, anyone got any ideas? Note that stupid suggestions will be shot down, boiled, and fed to our pet dinosaur."

"You guys have a pet dinosaur?" Ratchet asks.

Iggy replies, "Yeah, his name is Boris the Invisible."

"Don't you mean invincible?"

"At first, he was the Invincible, but then he found out about the original Boris the Invincible, and … Well, I'm sure you can imagine."

Ratchet nods understandingly. "Yes, I can. You're lucky you at least have a pet, though. Mr. I'm Too Paranoid to Stay in One Place for Over Twenty-Four Hours over there won't even let us have a pet gerbil."

"Hey!" Fang interrupts. "No revealing information about the Gang to outside parties!"

"See what I mean?" Ratchet tells Iggy. "Paranoid."

"Hey, at least Fang is a guy," Iggy retorts. "He doesn't PMS."

"You have a point there …"

And then both of them are abruptly dragged off the couch which was temporarily hosting their butts and smacked, very routinely and efficiently, on the back of the head.

"_What_ were you boys saying?" Max asks them in her argue-with-me-and-you-will-wake-up-in-Siberia-naked voice.

"N-nothing, ma'am," they stammer in unison. (There are sniggers from the peanut gallery.)

"That's what I thought," she says, grinning. "Now, I imagine that you've used your silence to think of a good plan, right?"

"Um …"

Hah, she caught them. I can't help laughing at their misery (without schadenfreude, there would be no freude, if you ask me), which Iggy notices and shoots me a glare as punishment for. Damn, his hearing is good.

Ratchet, however, is a quicker thinker. "Can't we just keep beating them down until they give up?" he asks.

"I don't know, can we?" the Flock leader retorts.

Ratchet opens his mouth to answer her, but before he gets a chance, Angel beats him to it. "Probably not, since even though we totally defeated them last night, they came back tonight to fight again. Plus, they obviously have superior numbers, and it would most likely end up being us who are beaten down into surrender, not them."

Ratchet glances at me, like, _Did I seriously just get shot down by a ten-year-old?_

I shrug. _Happens all the time._

_Actually, I'm eleven,_ Angel thinks into both our minds.

_Whatever._

"So, clearly, that isn't an option," Max is saying. "Any more ideas?"

"We could set a trap for them and, when they come in, set off a bomb to blow them all up," Iggy suggests.

"And destroy my house? I think not," says a voice from the staircase – Dr. M, in a faded navy blue bathrobe and moccasin slippers, her arms crossed in that universal what-the-hell-are-you-doing pose I bet she's incredibly familiar with, having lived with Ella for sixteen-odd years.

It's like a stereotypical comedy show; we all turn around in slow motion to stare at her, flushing in embarrassment.

"Mom, how long have you been standing there?" Ella asks nervously.

"Long enough to see that this discussion is going nowhere," the good doctor replies, walking into the kitchen to fix herself some coffee as she talks. "Pointless banter may be attractive to the fangirls, but it doesn't solve any problems, no matter how many contemporary nerd-dom references you make."

I guess she has a point; I mean, all of us in the Flock love bantering – it keeps us from becoming depressed because of all the horrible shit we've lived through – but it's been ten minutes and we aren't any closer to an answer to our problem.

Everyone else must agree with me, because there is much bowing of the head and all eyes are on Dr. Martinez as she continues:

"Now, it seems to me that your best solution is to wait and see what happens. We don't know enough about the things that have been attacking you to formulate a plan with which to permanently defeat them yet, but we _can_ prepare to defeat them as quickly and easily as possible. By that, I mean you guys should train more, get in better shape, and study battle tactics, especially ones that might play to their weaknesses. Plus, from what I've heard, they followed you here from another location. Did you ever consider that, in order to do that, they'd have to have been spying on you? We'll need to check for bugs or other recording devices, and …"

**FINALLY, A BREAK! WHY DO I GET THE FEELING THIS WILL BE A VERY LONG CHAPTER...?**

By the time everyone finally goes to bed, completely exhausted, at around three o'clock in the morning, we all feel much more prepared to deal with the Viking-ish-type-things the next time they attack. With the combined leadership efforts of Max and her (much smarter and more awesome than we'd given her credit for) mother, we managed to stay on topic long enough to fully deliberate the best battle tactics, training methods, and possible strategies for cutting our intra-Flock-al bickering to a minimum.

As I brush my teeth in the upstairs bathroom adjacent to Ella's (and, for the moment, Iggy's) room, I hear them talking:

"Your mom is really something, isn't she?"

"Yeah. Every time I get mad at her for being overprotective or not understanding me or, well, you know, normal teenager-y stuff, she'll go and do something like this. Your mom is much better, though."

"My mom? Who …?"

"Max, duh!"

"…"

"…"

"Is it that obvious?"

"That all of you think of her as a mom? Yeah."

"Crap …"

"Why so annoyed? It's cute."

"Cute isn't exactly the adjective I was hoping you'd use to describe me."

"What would you prefer? Annoying, arrogant, insufferable, uncharismatic …"

"Shut up! Those weren't the ones I was going for, either."

"Make me. Aggravating, idiotic, narcissistic, obnoxio – _MMPH_!"

"…"

"… hot, sexy, funny, a great kisser …"

"… kind, generous, best boyfriend in the universe …"

"Hey! Stop putting words into my mouth!"

"Make me."

"Mmm, gladly …"

"…"

If only I had a camera …

**BREAK BREAK BREAK NO I LIED THIS IS SECRETLY A TURTLE IN DISGUISE AS A BREAK**

The next morning, there I am, innocently – or, well, maybe not so innocently – rigging a bucket of garbage to be dropped on the head of the next person to enter the downstairs bathroom, when I hear:

"SHIT! Shit shit shit shit shit!"

Iggy dashes down the stairs faster than the evil, man-eating bunny in that one part of _Monty Python and the Holy Grail _can devour human flesh, grabs his coat from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and begins to pull on his sneakers.

"Where are you off to on this fine Saturday morning?" I ask him. "Saturday mornings are for three things and three things only: a, sleeping, b, playing pranks on other people while they're sleeping, and c, recovering from the school week – by sleeping."

"Yeah, well, I left my chem book at school," he explains, "and I need it to study for this test on Monday because if I fail the test, my grade will go down, and if my grade goes down, I'll be kicked out of the play and –"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," I say. "Just don't expect me to help you study. My knowledge of chemistry only extends to the inner workings of explosives."

"Wasn't expecting you to."

He's out the door and about to shut it when I hear a second person coming down the stairs, muttering something about how "it's, like, totally rude to be in the bathroom for, like, an hour, no matter how much of a bad hair day you're having."

It's Nudge.

Coming to use the downstairs bathroom.

The one where my prank is rigged.

…

"Iggy, wait up! I'm going with you!"

**DURING THIS BREAK, NUDGE MADE PLANS TO BEHEAD GAZZY WITH HER HAIRDRYER.**

Half an hour later, the two of us are walking back to the front entrance of the school, Iggy's textbook swinging back and forth with his right arm.

"How are you going to study with that, anyway?" I ask him. "I mean, it's not like you can actually see it or anything – No offense."

"None taken," Iggy answers. "I was just going to have Ella quiz me."

"But isn't she taking biology?"

"Yeah, that's why I need the textbook."

"Oh …"

_Fail, Gazzy, fail._

Just then, I notice a girl and a guy, both about Iggy's age, coming down the hallway in our direction.

"Warning, people alert," I hiss to Iggy.

"Who is it?" he whispers back.

"I dunno, how can I tell? The only high-schoolers I know are you, Ella, Liz, Max, Dylan, Nudge, and the other kids in the play."

"Just describe them."

"Okay …" I look at the people more carefully, then say, "Well, the girl has straight blond hair, maybe ironed flat, and it's in a ponytail with red ribbons. She's kinda tall. Oh, and she's wearing a cheerleading uniform. Also, she has large tracts of land, if you know what I mean. The guy is wearing a football uniform, only without a helmet. He's African-American, really tall and strong, kinda heavyset, and has the start of a Mohawk."

"Does the girl look a bit like a weasel?" Iggy asks.

"Actually … Yeah."

He grins – the sort of grin that he gets when he's about to explain a new, awesome prank to me – and I wonder what he's planning. "This will be interesting."

"Hey, Larissa, Will," Iggy calls. "Long time no see."

"Iggy," the African-American guy – Will – says. I think I recognize him from somewhere, but I can't remember where. "What brings you here on a Saturday? Don't you get enough torture Monday through Friday?"

"You know, I could ask you the same question," the Igster retorts.

"You could," the guy admits, "but it's kind-of obvious." He gestures to the football uniform.

"Really. Enlighten me."

"What, can you not see this? Are you stupid or something?"

"No, blind, remember?"

Most people would be embarrassed, but this guy blows it off like the fault is all Iggy's: "Why should I bother to remember that? I have _much_ more important things to think about."

_Like how to be a douche?_ I think, but I don't say anything – and I remember where I've seen him before: it's the idiot with whom Iggy almost got into a fight last week at the ice cream place.

I get the feeling this isn't going to go well.

Yeah, and also, the sky is blue.

"Anyway, you didn't answer my question," Will says. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, y'know," Iggy answers, "grabbing my chem book so that I won't fail Hart's test on Monday."

"Oh, that test!" the girl – Larissa, if I remember correctly – exclaims. "Funny coincidence, I have to cram for that, too. I wasn't worried about it before, because Liz promised to come over to my place tomorrow and help me study, but now I'll probably fail."

"But doesn't that mean you'll fail the class and get kicked off the cheerleading squad?" Will asks.

She sighs. "Yeah, probably, and then we'll lose the championship. And we worked so hard for that, too …"

Iggy rolls his eyes. "I'm sure you'll live."

Will takes a step forward to glower at Iggy, and even though I know I could take him in a fight, he's so big and intimidating – like an eighteen-wheeler truck looming in front of me – that I step back, camouflaging myself against a nearby bank of lockers.

"Dude, you don't get it," he says, his voice low and threatening. "Because of _your_ rotten influence, the top cheerleading squad in the state is going to lose the championship. I don't know what kind of Montague-Capulet, social pyramid-defying shit you're trying to pull here, but it won't stand with me. You've gotta be punished."

"Really?" Iggy replies, cool as a hibernating popsicle. "And who's going to 'punish' me? I don't believe there are any available contenders in the immediate vicinity."

The football player reaches out a meaty hand to grab Iggy's t-shirt. "Me, of course, asshole," he growls, obviously mad. "I have here, on my varsity-three-years-running-worthy chest, something called a six-pack. Heard of it?"

"Indeed, I have. Unfortunately for you, I have an eight-pack. That does trump a six-pack, right?"

Will is temporarily taken aback. "W-what? You're bluffing. You've gotta be bluffing. There's no way someone as skinny as you can have an eight-pack."

"Appearances can be deceiving, you know," Iggy tells him, lifting up his shirt to reveal a pale, but extremely muscular nonetheless, chest.

His opponent smirks. "I'm sure that comes in handy when raping your slut of a girlfriend."

…

_Oh, shit._

See, there's this one bit of Iggy's not-giving-a-shit philosophy that I happen to know: _They can insult you all they want and it'll just roll over you like the ocean tides rolling over a rock. But if they insult your friends or family, they have to pay. And if they insult your girlfriend, they're __**dead.**_

When Iggy's temper is concerned, "dead" is not a figure of speech.

And, well, much as I would like to see this asshole die at the hands of the vengeful, demonic angel that is a furious Iggy, Max would have both of our heads on stakes if that happened. Plus, there's the police to worry about.

So, I do believe it's time for some peacemaking tactics.

_FART-BOMB, I CHOOSE YOU!_

**THE FOLLOWING SCENE WAS BASICALLY A RUSSIA-SIZED TON OF SWEARING, AND, AS A RESULT, HAS BEEN REMOVED FOR THE BASIC PURPOSE OF MAKING CENSORING ABOUT PI-TIMES-TEN-TO-THE-TWENTIETH PERCENT EASIER. WE APPRECIATE YOUR UNDERSTANDING IN THIS MATTER. THANK YOU.**

Iggy doesn't say anything the entire way home, except for the occasional mumble about how it was the worst thing he had ever smelled in his years living with me, and that was saying something. He doesn't look at me, either – doesn't even acknowledge me, as though we're two complete strangers and not brothers, best friends, and partners in crime.

It's worrying, to say the least.

Finally, when we reach Ella's doorstep, he turns to me, the expression on his face unreadable.

_Shit,_ I think, _he's going to chew me out for not letting him have his revenge._

But he doesn't.

Instead, he engulfs me in a great bear hug the likes of which may leave me with a permanent breathing disorder.

"Thanks," he whispers, before letting me go.

I recover the use of my lungs, then grin and gasp out a, "No problem."

As we enter the house, we hear Max and Fang arguing. Again.

"I just can't believe you just _left out the tomatoes in the middle of the counter,_" the female counterpart of our version of Ron and Hermione screeches.

"For the hundredth time, why is that such a problem?" her partner in debating retorts.

"Because, idiot, tomatoes go bad if you leave them out, especially when it's this warm out!"

"Oh, my God, I left the tomatoes out for _five minutes_. The _world_ is going to _end_."

"Why won't you just do what I tell you to?"

"I hate to break it to you, Max, but nobody does what you tell them to."

"Dylan does."

"Oh, and he's just the perfect man, isn't he?"

"You're just jealous."

"And oranges are purple."

"He is jealous, though," I tell Iggy as we head upstairs, out of earshot of the arguers.

"He is?" Iggy asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Can't you tell? He obviously still likes her."

"Where did you learn how to tell this kind of stuff?" he wonders, looking at me like I've suddenly grown a second head.

I shrug. "Liz."

"Oh, that explains everything."

Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming up behind me.

"Gazzy," a voice says sweetly. "I've been looking, like, _everywhere_ for you."

…

_Oh, shit._

**THIS IS THE LAST BREAK. ROMANO WOULD LIKE TO INFORM YOU THAT IT IS GAY AND EUROPEAN. ALSO, IT IS A BASTARD. THAT IS ALL.**

**Gazzy is dead. So dead. Hahaha. Hehehe. If anyone wants to draw and/or write Nudge beheading Gazzy with her hairdryer, that would probably make my life.**

**Or my birthday.**

**Which is in three days.**

**Just, y'know, putting that out there …**

**Unfortunately, the day after my birthday, midterms start. (Dun dun dun duuuun.) As a result, chapter nineteen won't be finished until after that, namely, a week after my birthday – February first, I think. And then, Kina will have to beta, and she's far from the most free-time-happy person in the world at the moment, so, basically, it will be a while. I figured I'd let you guys know that my excuse is actually, like, valid this time. xD**

**Review or Gazzy isn't the only one Nudge beheads with that hairdryer of hers …**


	19. In Which the Stakes are Raised

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 19: In Which the Stakes are Raised**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE UNFORTUNATELY LONG TIME IT HAS BEEN SINCE CHAPTER 18:**

**"Shit shit shit boobies boobies boobies shit boobies boobies." – my friend Julienne**

"**Sorry, dude, the only extra credit I give is for awesome and/or funny pictures drawn on the backs of tests." – my history teacher**

"**THIS IS NOT A MERE RULER – it's my academic saber. It's what gives me my power. Without it, I'm just a man, but with it, I can channel the powers of all history teachers from all of mankind." – my history teacher**

"**What are you talking about? It's _entirely_ possible to play the flute while walking on a treadmill!" – my band teacher**

"**SOMEBODY, GIVE THIS GIRL A DETENTION! SHE THREW OUT MY SHARPIE! THAT COST ME, LIKE, AN ENTIRE THIRTY CENTS!" – Lilah (FlyingSolo365)**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: "Boris the Invincible" – in GoldenEye, my favorite James Bond movie, one of the best characters is a Russian hacker named Boris who, whenever he "defeats" someone by hacking them without being caught, stands up, displays his (puny) biceps, and shouts, "I AM INVINCIBLE!" to everyone in a five-mile radius. Near the end of the movie, he manages to survive the collapse of a burning building and, happy with survival, gets up to do his "I AM INVINCIBLE!" routine – only to have some liquid nitrogen fall on him, freezing him in "invincible" state forever. It's a great movie. You should totally watch it.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:****_WingedArcher1._**** Nice job. :)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Fruits Basket**

**AND THE CHAPTER BEGINS!**

"_Are you sure this will work?" I ask Ella as we head into the cafeteria._

_She snorts like an angry bull, irritated – something she has every right to be, as this is the tenth time I've asked her this question in the past five minutes. "Sure, I'm sure," she says. "It worked just fine for me, didn't it?"_

"_Yeah, but you're not me," I protest. "You're much braver than I am."_

"_It doesn't take much courage to flip someone off."_

That's debatable,_ I think._

_I can't argue any more, though, because there they are: the usual people, sitting at our usual table, talking about the usual topics, eating the usual lunches. I notice Larissa waving me over with a chemistry study guide, ready for me to help her study for the test she has on Monday._

_A seemingly normal table, filled with seemingly normal teenagers. Nobody can see, just by looking at it, the manipulation, antagonism, and cruelty that these girls hold in their designer purses._

_I feel my fists clench, almost of their own accord. I have to do this. I have to._

_But I know what they're capable of, and they won't be afraid to make my life miserable if I do it … I won't be able to take that …_

_Shit, I'm getting closer, there they are, there's no time to make a decision, no time, no time …_

"_Go," Ella whispers._

Only a few steps. I can do this.

_Heart running a race in my chest, everything shaking, trembling feet take anxious steps._

_Five more … legs feel like jelly … four more … I can't move any more … three more … I can't do this … two more … but I have to do this … one more … I **can** do this … I **will** do this …_

_And I'm past._

See my finger, see my thumb, see my peace sign – minus one.

_With a surge of determination, I raise my middle finger in the air, high enough for the entire cafeteria to notice._

_Now all I have to do is keep walking._

"_Liz? I can't believe it. I almost expected this of Ella, but not of you." Larissa sounds more hurt than anything else._

"_You don't have to do this," she continues as I turn around to face her, trembling like a leaf in a storm. "We're nice people, really. We want to be your friends. Is that too much to ask?"_

_She's smiling sweetly, fakely, as are the other girls – girls I've known for years – who begin to flank her. Their smiles are the only things that stay the same as they grow in size, in girth, in intimidation; they're sprouting wings and talons, fangs and hair in strange places; they're becoming monsters straight out of a young child's nightmare._

_This isn't only mental any more – I am, quite literally, rooted to the spot. It feels as though my legs have transformed into tree trunks, frozen in space until someone cuts them down._

_The beasts are advancing on me, still grinning maliciously and laughing sadistically. In seconds, they will be close enough to rip out my heart and eat it, like in a horror movie._

_It's hard to describe precisely how terrified I am right now._

_Closer … closer … closer …_

_A phone rings._

I roll over in bed, my skin almost sticking to the sweat-covered sheets. _Urgh._ I'm honestly beginning to believe that breaking off of the popular group was an error in judgment; I've been having the same nightmare about it every night since. At first, everything happens the same way as it actually did, then, instead of Ella and Iggy jumping in to defend my wimpy, chicken self, Larissa and the others morph into monsters out to punish me for defying them.

It's pathetic, I know. But, well, I'm a coward, and there isn't really anything I can do to change that.

Anyway, I have more interesting things to dwell on.

Such as, for example, the phone that is currently ringing.

I yawn, stretch out an arm, and grab it on the last ring.

"Hello, this is Liz's secretary. Liz is asleep, dead, or fighting rogue ninjas at the moment, and thus cannot answer any calls. However, if you leave a message –"

"Liz, cut the crap," the person on the other end – Ella – interrupts me (a shame, really, since I didn't get to finish; I have this whole speech planned and everything). "We've got a bit of an issue over here," she says, "and could use your help."

"It is before noon on a Sunday morning," I reply. "Liz does not do mornings."

"Liz is a sagacious, wonderful friend who would be of immense assistance in the issue presently facing the Flock and its current hangers-on. Also, it is not, in fact, before noon on a Sunday morning – it's twelve-oh-six."

"Dang," I curse quietly, then, even though I'm blushing at her compliment, add, "Flattery is not your greatest weapon in this situation."

"Pleeeeease?" Ella pleads. I can almost see her puppy-dog eyes through the phone.

I think for a moment, then say, "Oh, all right, fine. But you owe me one."

"Thanks, Liz! You're the best!"

She won't remember that she owes me one. But it's okay, because I never collect, anyway.

**THIS BREAK FEELS PRETTY AND WITTY AND **_**GAY!**_

The note left on the Martinez house's doorstep was folded in half so many times that Max nearly missed it when she went out to see "who the hell was ringing our doorbell at eleven-thirty in on a Sunday morning." It's typed in block, all caps, Arial font letters and printed on regular, eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of computer paper.

_**YOU'RE INVITED.**_

_**Who: You and me**_

_**What: A truce**_

_**Where: Coyote park**_

_**When: Tonight at 11:59 P.M.**_

_**RSVP: Show up or you will die a long, painful death in the very near future.**_

After I finish reading the note, questions bombard me like a hail of missiles:

"What do you think?"

"Who sent it?"

"Should we go?"

"What does it mean?"

"What should we do?"

I wait for all of them to question themselves out (as I know I can never get their attention otherwise), then sigh and ask, "What, did you think I was some sort of detective? That I would, oh, I don't know, lick the ink and tell you 'This tastes like it came from the such-and-such region of such-and-such country?'"

Awkward silence ensues. I can tell that Iggy is resisting the urge to shout, "AWKWARD SILENCE! A GAY BABY IS BORN!"

"Well, you are, like, really super-smart," Nudge replies.

"Good grades don't instigate super-sleuth abilities," I tell her.

"… Oh."

"Well, can you at least give us your opinion on what we should do?" Max inquires. "We took a vote as to whether we should go to the 'truce' or not, and we're at a tie."

"My opinion …" I say slowly, thinking. "Hmm. Well. My opinion is that whoever sent this is tired of you guys killing off all of his/her/its henchmen and wants to resolve the issue without any more bloodshed. You should go, to avoid aforementioned bloodshed and to find out what he/she/it wants. Even if it turns out to be an ambush, you've defeated your enemy's minions before, so you should be able to do it again. It seems simple enough," I finish with a shrug.

All of them stare at me as though I just popped out of a portal to the Stone Age and asked what a wheel was.

"We never thought of it that way," Gazzy finally says.

"Mm." Fang nods.

"See? I told you she could help," Ella exclaims, holding up her hand for a high-five. I grin and slap it.

"We're going," Max announces, "and you, Liz, are coming with us."

"Wh-what? I am?" I protest. "But I'm no help! I can't fight, I can't think on my feet, I'm coward, I –"

"Don't worry, you'll be fine," Ella assures me. "Besides, you can always run away if things start to get rough."

"I always knew that Italian blood would come in handy someday," I muse.

**THIS BREAK IS SPONSORED BY OWL'S AMAZING SWIVELY-CHAIR, WHICH SHE HAS NAMED HENRY.**

Coyote Park is the ideal place for an ambush.

For one thing, it's not particularly big; it only covers one city block. For another thing, it's completely covered with trees and rock formations, including the famous pile of boulders in the shape of a howling coyote that gave the park its name. Plus, the streets in the immediate vicinity are full of office buildings, always abandoned overnight. This combination of a small enough space to corner us, plenty of places for our attackers to hide, and nobody to hear us scream would make it amazingly easy for the mysterious controller of the Viking-ish-type-things to attack us.

So, even though this meeting is officially a truce, we – the Flock, Ella, Fang, Ratchet, and I – are constantly on guard. There's this ominous feeling in the air, like something important is about to happen but we have no idea what it is. Or perhaps it's simply that someone is watching us. Perhaps someone is stalking us. Perhaps someone is going to jump out and attack us.

Yeah, that would be fun … (note sarcasm).

And then, something _does _happen.

"_Hello, and welcome to Coyote Park. It's nice to finally meet you in person._"

The voice is female, pleasant, and a bit robotic, like that of an automated voice message. Or that of someone pretending to be an automated voice message. Or that of someone using autotune. Whatever. As for where it's coming from … I have more faith in the fact that it's totally possible for a sixteen-year-old girl to live by herself in a tent for a few weeks than in my rough estimate of the location of the speaker.

I'm not all that surprised at this villain's method of communication – he/she/it is keeping his/her/its identity a secret, which is smart – but everyone else's reactions aren't quite as calm. Max and Ella are screeching at it to shut up; Dylan is confused; Gazzy and Angel are frightened; Nudge is talking at the speed of light; Ratchet is laughing at the others; Fang … Well, Fang only shows emotion when he's arguing with Max, so he doesn't count. The only calm one besides me (and Fang) is Iggy, who is moving his head around – trying to pinpoint where the sound came from. _Clever._

"_I am the person whose creations you have been fighting for the past two nights_," the voice continues. "_I could simply tell you what I want and why I have been fighting you, but that would be no fun. Please choose A, B, C, or D."_

I wonder what would happen if we didn't choose anything … Probably not something I ever want to experience.

"C," I say. C is always the best choice on multiple-choice tests, so it's probably the best guess.

Everyone else stops what he/she was doing and turns to stare at me as the voice goes on. "_You have chosen option C: __F__orty-eight hours to give me what I want._"

Iggy seems closer to finding the speaker's location now … I need to get it to keep talking …

"What were the other options?" I ask.

"_Option A: I forcefully take what I want._"

_Well, thank the deities I didn't choose that one,_ I think. Somehow, I don't imagine what he/she/it wants is something we're likely to part with …

"_Option B: You have an hour to give me what I want before I forcefully take it. Option D: __P__izza._"

As the voice speaks, Iggy's head swivels, searching for the source of the sound. Finally, on the word "pizza," he stares – well, he would be staring, if he could see – directly at a medium-sized, sap-colored pine tree with a plethora of branches that stands fairly near us.

_Okay, so the speaker is in that tree. Good to know._

Anyway, the voice is still speaking.

"_Of course, that was not something you needed to know. Good choice, by the way. Option C provides for the best suspense and dramatic build-up."_

… Is it just me, or was that the Fourth Wall?

"_Now – one moment, please._"

Breath is held and there is, indeed, much suspense and dramatic build-up.

Then, suddenly, something tiny and deadly flies out of the trees so quickly we can't see the direction from whence it came and makes itself comfortable in Nudge's exposed arm.

On closer examination, it appears to be a small dart, the type typically used for shots in doctor's offices.

That can only mean one thing: it held poison.

The air fills with the sounds of anxious questioning: "Nudge, are you okay? Does it hurt?"

She brushes them off. "No, it doesn't, and I'm, like, totally fine." She does, in fact, seem to be totally fine – except for a small prick where the dart hit her, she appears to be a perfectly normal, healthy teenage girl.

The voice tells us otherwise, however; it's laughing like a maniac.

"What is it? What have you done?" Max demands.

"_You are in my clutches now,_" the voice explains, less pleasant and more evil. "_That dart contained a deadly poison of my own creation. It will take no effect now, and the girl will look and feel fine, but in exactly forty-eight hours, she will drop dead. This poison has been tested multiple times. It will not fail."_

Nudge becomes pale, so pale that she almost seems already dead. "Wh-what? Wh-why?" she stutters, shocked.

"_Don't worry, little girl. You don't have to die. I have an antidote to this poison, also tested many times and definitely working._"

"Give us the antidote, then, you evil bitch," Gazzy exclaims, the cuss word earning him a death glare from Max.

"_So you want the antidote?"_ the voice asks.

"Of course we want the antidote!" Max replies.

"_Okay, then, give me what I want._"

"What do you want?" I say.

We might not give it to her, but now that Nudge might die because of this, the stakes are pretty high.

"_Ella Martinez._"

…

_What?_

"B-but we all thought you wanted the Flock," Max stammers. It's the first time I've seen her unsure of what to say; she usually has a clever comeback for everything.

"_Did I ever give you that idea?"_ the voice retorts."_ No, I did not. You pesky Flock members are only preventing me from taking Ella. You're like loyal guard dogs. It's so damned irritating, and now I have to concoct all this evil scheming to get you to back down. So much unnecessary conflict."_

"Then why do you want Ella?" I ask. "You owe us an explanation."

"_I owe you nothing._"

"Come on, tell us, please," I plead. "We're curious. Besides, all the best villains have awesome back-stories."

"… _They do?_"

"Yeah. Haven't you ever seen _Phineas and Ferb_?"

"_That Doctor Whats-his-face, Doof-something, is a disgrace to all of us scientific prodigies."_

"Still, you have to admit he has awesome back-stories."

"_I do have to admit he has awesome back-stories._"

"So tell us yours."

"_Oh, all right,_" the voice agrees. "_It's not particularly awesome, mainly sad. But I don't suppose telling it will cause too many problems … Feel grateful that you are receiving the honor of hearing my emotional back-story._"

"Oh, joy," Ratchet mutters. Nudge aims a kick at his vital regions, effectively shushing him. Everyone else listens intently; we're eager to hear the reason Ella is being targeted by this … scientist, apparently.

"_I'm not telling you my real name. You may call me Madame. I was once a scientist at the company of Itex, but they fired me because I was using too much of their budget for my independent projects. If only they could have known how much my future projects could potentially benefit them, they may have thought differently. But they said my experiments were pointless, that artificially generating human beings I could bend to my will would never work."_

Artificially generating human beings that she could bend to her will … This doesn't sound good. And she wants us to call her "Madame." _Madame._ That's French. Odd …

"_Well, I proved them wrong. Too bad they aren't hear to see it. I would enjoy laughing in their faces._

"_Anyway, after they fired me – more like exiled me, since they didn't want me to expose any of their secrets – I built a new research facility on an abandoned island off the coast of Norway. I continued my experiments there using funds that my lover, – whose name I will also not disclose - the head of the Itex facility in France, sent me._

"_This man, my lover, was the greatest man in the world. He was smart and powerful, and let me use that to my advantage. He was always faithful to me and always did what I told him."_

It sounds to me like she loved the fact that she had him completely whipped more than anything else.

"_Have you noticed that I used only the past tense to speak of him? That is because he died. He managed to escape the first wipe-out of Itex – as I said, he was a smart man – but didn't survive the second, even though he had risen to one of the head executives of the new company by that point._

"_He was killed. His life, such a wonderful life, worth everything to me, was taken cruelly from him. By one of you._

"_By a young mutant named Iggy Griffiths."_

Oh. Well. That explains everything.

Iggy grins. "Oh, that French dude, the pathetic one, who was begging me to spare him. I remember him. Man, was he _ugly_."

Ella laughs. She doesn't seem at all phased by the fact that she's wanted by a woman who's obviously critically insane.

"_As soon as I learned of my lover's death,_" the voice – Madame – goes on, "_I had only one goal: to bring pain to the one who had caused my pain. To make that individual feel what I had felt. Iggy, you took my lover from me. Now I will take yours from you."_

Ella grabs Iggy's hand tightly, as though she'll never let go. "Never."

"Never," he echoes, intertwining their fingers.

Madame laughs. "_Stupid young ones. I thought I had forever, too, and look where that got me._"

Max suddenly stomps into the argument, guns blaring. "That's _stupid_! You shouldn't kill Ella just because Iggy killed the guy you loved! I mean, that's just revenge. I could understand if you wanted to capture us because we're some of the last mutants left, but _revenge_? Really? That's like … like what Victoria did in _Eclipse_! And look where that got her!"

"_Oh, you are a Twilight fan, are you?_" Madame asks.

"Got a problem with that?" Max shoots back.

"_No, not at all. The books are good entertainment. So, Edward or Jacob?"_

"Edward, obviously."

"_How can you say such a thing? Jacob is much better._"

"Never! Edward is _perfect."_

"_Jacob is flawed. That makes him perfect."_

"That makes no sense. Which would you rather have, a vampire or a werewolf?"

"_Well, I prefer a companion who can change into a wolf to a companion whose skin's temperature is consistently below freezing."_

"Ugh, you horrible _bitch!_"

…

Well. That certainly didn't end how I expected it to.

_So, we have forty-eight hours to come up with a plan to get the antidote without sacrificing Ella ... This won't be easy …_

**WHAT STARTS WITH "B" AND ENDS WITH "K?" "BOOK!" YOU THOUGHT I WOULD SAY "BREAK," DIDN'T YOU?**

**Someone, cue the ominous music. This is starting to get climatic.**

***sings badly* Forty-eight hours to save the world …**

**The rest of this story (except for the epilogue) will take place in those forty-eight hours, in case you haven't figured that out by now. By the way, there will be five more chapters, plus the epilogue. We're nearing the end, people!**

**Is that good or bad …?**

**Reviews are loved! :)**


	20. Close Encounters of the Bathroom Variety

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH  
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**CHP 20: Close Encounters of the Bathroom Variety**

**RANDOM COMMENT OF THE UNFORTUNATELY LONG TIME IT'S BEEN SINCE CHAPTER 19:**

**"Consider me a stranger. A _hostile_ stranger." - my algebra teacher**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This: "I have more faith in the fact that it's totally possible for a sixteen-year-old girl to live by herself in a tent for a few weeks than in my rough estimate of the location of the speaker." In the beginning of Fruits Basket, Tohru, the main character (and a sixteen-year-old girl) is attempting to live by herself in a tent for a few weeks. It doesn't really work.**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: _FlyingSolo365_. :)**

** THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: ****Percy Jackson. The series, not the person.**

_Bladder, why you so hateful of my sleeping habits? _I ask the irritating organ upon being woken up by it at one-oh-seven in the morning.

_I don't give a shit about your sleeping habits, man. But I'm the__**bladder**__, so when I gotta go, you gotta do what I say, man,_it answers.

_You're the bladder?_

Yes, I'm the fucking bladder, and you better believe it, or I'm gonna ... I'm gonna not let you go for a fucking_** week.**_

... Great. My bladder is developing a superiority complex. That's _all_I need.

Well, I guess I better go soon, at any rate ...

**TEN UNCOMFORTABLE MINUTES LATER**

Yeah, I really need to go now. Damn my lazy self for not getting up already. I have to _go_, or I'll explode! Explosions are awesome, but not when I'm the one exploding.

_But the couch is so warm and comfortable ..._

But I have to go ...

But I'm lazy ...

But I have to –

_O__h shit it's coming out._

...

Please erase any perverted thoughts you just had about the previous sentence. Thank you.

...

Moving on ...

I leap off the couch, warmth forgotten, and make for the bathroom like a satyr on enchilada day, only to find that the door is locked.

_Locked._

No. Not allowed.

...

WHY DO DOORS ALWAYS HAVE TO BE SO UNCOOPERATIVE WHEN YOU NEED THEM MOST?

Hmm, maybe because they're secretly hatching a conspiracy to take over the world?

...

It was a rhetorical question, Gazzy. _Rhetorical._

...

Anyway.

I'm about to forcefully break down the door with all the rage of a British man whose tea was stolen when my ear picks up something from inside: the sound of ... of ...

Crying? Is that crying?

"Who's in there?" I call through the door. "Are you okay?"

Well, obviously whoever is in there isn't okay, but it's still the best question I can think of to ask.

"None of your business, and I don't want to talk to either of you bastards," the person inside replies. It sounds kind of like … Max.

Max ... crying?

Excuse me for a moment while my world is tilted off its axis a little.

...

Okay, we're back.

"I don't think I'm either of the bastards," I tell her.

The door opens, revealing a Max who has, in fact, been crying. Her eyes are rimmed with red and her cheeks are streaked with wetness.

"Sorry, Gazzy," she says. "I thought you were someone else – you know, someone I've been trying to avoid. They're both such assholes. Everyone is an asshole. _I'm_an asshole. And –"

"Max, I hate to interrupt," I cut in, "but my bladder is _legitimately about to explode_right now. The angst can wait five minutes."

**FIVE**_** BLISSFUL, GLORIOUS **_**MINUTES LATER**

"You know, I don't think I've ever heard someone pee that hard for that long," the Flock leader comments, her back to me as I zip up.

"Well, my urinary system defies the normal laws of the universe," I reply, grinning.

"True, that."

"So, um, about what you were saying earlier ..." I begin, unsure of how to voice my thoughts. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to or anything, but … I mean … Yeah …"

"No, I get it," Max says. "And I'll tell you. I need to get it off my chest anyway." She turns so that her back is against the wall and slides down onto the floor, curling up into the fetal position. Like this, she looks less like the powerful, bossy Flock leader we've all learned to deal with and more like a small, weak, innocent young girl, overwhelmed by a world she doesn't understand.

And then the words pour from her, as though someone has opened the floodgates and they're all free to come out in a rush.

"It's like … Imagine you have two dogs, right? One of them is really faithful and obedient – he'll always follow you and protect you and do what you say, and you can trust him to not let you down. He's, like, the perfect dog."

_Dylan_, I think. For all his faults, he _does_ really love Max, and she completely trusts him.

"The other one, on the other hand, you hate _at least_ ninety percent of the time."

Fang, obviously.

"He's disobedient and annoying and doesn't really help you at all and if he dropped off the face of the Earth, you wouldn't care a bit – you might even be happy about it. But at the same time, the other ten percent of the time, you really, really like him. He just understands you. When you're sad or lonely or hating the world, he's the best shoulder to cry on. And sometimes he'll run away, and you'll hate him for it, but you'll miss him like crazy and you can't bring yourself to scold him when he comes back."

Yep, she's definitely talking about Fang.

"So the problem is, which do you pick? 'Cause they're always jealous of each other and you can't keep both, but you'll hurt one either way. And then you start to think that maybe you're wrong, it wouldn't matter, because there's another girl. Maybe it's hate-hate, not love-hate. He was unfaithful once, he could be again. But, somehow, you don't think so. But you think so. And on and on and on …

"I'm so confused, Gazzy, and this whole thing with the attacks only makes it worse. I don't know what to do. I'm the Flock leader, I'm the mom, I'm supposed to know what to do, but I _don't_, and that's the worst thing of all."

Her voice cracks, breaking into a sob.

"You know, when Bella couldn't choose between Edward and Jacob, I thought she was stupid – why couldn't she just pick one? But now I know how she feels … It may sound stupid, but this is the most difficult decision I've ever made, harder than anything about tactics or villains or whatever, because these are peoples' hearts and you can't just play with peoples' hearts because breaking one is something that's damned near impossible to forgive …"

…

Wow. I never realized being caught in a love triangle was this … stressful. Having guys fighting over you isn't all it's made out to be, I guess.

Max is looking at me. My turn to speak, I guess.

Crap, what do I _say_ … Mothers are supposed to do the comforting, not the other way around …

I end up simply blushing and saying, "I don't know any better than you do. I'm not exactly the expert on relationships here …"

She laughs slightly. "I know you don't. I don't need advice, just someone to listen to me rant. And you're good at that. So thanks."

"Oh. Um. You're welcome?"

"Good to hear. You do realize that if you mention this conversation to _anyone_ – including imaginary friends, the Internet, and Liz – your hair will be cut to look like a girl's and dyed bright pink, correct?"

Now _that's_ the Max we all know and fear.

"Yes, ma'am."

**THIS COULD BE A BREAK. IT COULD ALSO BE A LAMP.**

My initial instinct is to call and/or email Liz and ask her for advice on how to get Max and Fang together, as she is the expert on such things, but if Max found out I told someone else about her conflicting emotions … Well, I know from years of experience that she doesn't make empty threats. (And yes, I think Max should ditch Dylan and get with Fang instead; from the way she was talking, she clearly prefers the stoic and laconic type to the perfect type. Besides, the rest of the Flock wants to permanently join forces with Fang's Gang, and there's no way we can do that with the two leaders unable to say two words to each other without starting a full-scale argument.)

Okay, so I'm on my own in the matchmaking business now. Joy.

The first thing to do would be … Hmm, would be … Oh, I know: information. I'm almost positive that Max and Fang like each other, but Dylan is in the way of Fang making a move. Would he be willing to step down? Also, more importantly, whatever happened to Max II – I mean, Maya? The last time we came into contact with Fang's gang, it seemed pretty clear that he was falling in love with her … I bet that's why Max won't tell Dylan she isn't interested any more – she thinks Fang likes Maya.

Well, there's only one person here right now who both knows and might be willing to tell the story of what happened between the two of them.

I find him sitting on the front steps, shouting into a cell phone, and am momentarily intimidated. He's a big guy, dressed all in black, with these gigantic, ear-destroying headphones and a hood that covers almost all of his face. Plus, he sounds really annoyed. How do I know he'll tell me anything? How do I know he'll _know_ anything?

But then I get close enough to hear his conversation.

"Star, just because I said the girls here are cuter than the ones there doesn't mean I don't think you're cute."

…

"Yes, really! Just, I dunno, ask Katie or Maya or someone."

…

"Of course she just laughed and said it was a stupid argument. It _is_ a stupid argument! I shouldn't have to give your ego a huge boost every single time I mention that you're not the only girl I find cute."

…

"No, I'm not calling you stu –"

He breaks off; she must have hung up on him.

"Yeah, love you, too," he mutters, equal parts dejected and vexed.

Yep, he'll definitely know something.

"Your girlfriend?" I ask him, plopping down on the step net to him with my breakfast (two plain bagels and a couple pieces of Bacon).

"How'd you guess?" Ratchet asks bitterly, stealing a piece of the deliciously fatty meat.

"The arguing," I reply, taking a bite of bagel.

He chuckles. "Of course. Star's amazing and I do love her, but sometimes she wears down my nerves so much, it feels as though they're about to snap. Girls are so insecure, you know? They're always feeling bad about themselves, so you have to compliment them all the freaking time."

I remember Max's breakdown last night. "Yeah, you've got that right," I say. "Do you think Fang feels that way about Max?"

Ratchet grins, making him look a bit like a hyena. "Oh, yeah. He told me all about it."

_Jackpot!_

"He did?" I inquire, trying to contain my excitement.

He nods, and then explains, "Yeah, since I'm the guy closest in age to him – not to mention the best fighter – I'm his right-hand man, and he tells me everything. He can't be an emotionless brick wall around _everyone_, you know?"

"Makes sense," I agree. "What about Maya, though? Didn't he like her?"

Stretching his arms and placing them behind his head, Ratchet says, "Well, now that's a bit of an interesting story. Wanna hear it?"

"Sure," I reply.

"Just don't tell Fang I told you, though," he warns me. "I like all of my limbs where they are."

"Okay, got it."

"Well, I can't remember exactly what he told me, but this is probably pretty close to what happened…"

**AND NOW, FOR A LITTLE SOMETHING DIFFERENT: A FLASHBACK IN FANG'S POV! YAY! ENJOY!**

_On the roof of our current safe house, an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of a South Dakota prairie, the overwhelming natural feature is the stars. The little pinpricks of light completely surround me, dotted throughout the sky like Cheerios dotted throughout the milk in somebody's morning bowl of cereal. I haven't seen so many of them since I lived with the Flock in that cabin in the desert …_

… don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it …

_In the emptiness of grass, grass, and more grass around the tiny house, the stars are the only thing worth looking at. And I_am _looking at them. I'm asking them – no, begging them – for moral support._

_I know it's pathetic, an eighteen-year-old guy needing moral support to ask a girl out, but … I've never done this before. Hell, the only girl I've ever kissed is Max, and I never had to actually ask her out. I just had to wait for her to figure out she loved me and stop running away after I kissed her. Then … paradise …_

… don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it …

_Anyway._

_I tiptoe across the tile slates of the roof, shivering a little in the October night air (I should've worn a sweatshirt). Then I see her sitting there, with her back against the brick chimney._

_Only her silhouette is visible, but I look at her so often – in person and in my head – that it's enough for me to picture her perfectly: her unruly brownish-gold hair with that distinguishing pink streak; her huge, deep, chocolate-colored eyes; her knowing smirk; the perfect body underneath her ragged, dirty clothes; her air of confidence and ability to lead … All the features so alike to all of Max's._

_I love her. I know I do._

_Being with her is like being with Max … before. Before we left the cabin. Before we started trying to save the world. Before we trusted anyone but the Flock. Before we realized we loved each other …_

… don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it …

_I loved Max then, right? So I _must _love Maya. It's only logical._

_Therefore, the next logical step is to ask her out._

_Easier said than done._

_I take a deep breath, then let it out. A star winks at me kindly – or is it an airplane?_

"_Hi," I say quietly._

_She whirls around, startled, like a deer in the headlights. Oops. I guess she didn't know that I know about her frequent visits to the roof._

_Luckily, before she can punch me in the face (or worse) for being a creepy stalker and/or attacker, she sees that it's me._

"_Fang."_

"_Maya."_

"_I … um … wanted to ask you something."_

"_Okay, shoot. But not at me," she adds, making me laugh a little. She's funny, smart, and so, so beautiful. Just like Max._

… don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it …

"_Well … um … it's something I've been meaning to ask you for a while," I admit, "but I haven't done it yet. I over-think things a lot. That's why I'm kinda quiet, or at least I used to be, before I had to lead you and the others, since it's sorta hard to lead people when you say an average of ten words a day and –"_

"_Fang," Maya interrupts me. "Stop. You're starting to sound like … Oh, what's the name of that girl in the other Flock, the one who talks too much? N-something? Nat? Nola? Nun?"_

"_Nudge," I correct her automatically._

"_Like Nudge. Right. Now hurry up and ask your question, stupid, before I go inside. It's freezing out here."_

Okay, Fang, this is it. You can do this. It'll be easy. Like cooking Bacon. I like Bacon. It tastes good. Like Max's lips …

… don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it …

_I take another deep breath, and …_

"_Will you … um … be my … uh … girlfriend?"_

_Her eyes grow wider than moons, her fists clench, and for a moment I think she's going to fly away._

_But she doesn't._

_Instead, she waits and thinks. I wonder if she can hear my heart beating anxiously as she bickers with herself or composes an answer to my question or prepares herself to kiss me (I wish) or … whatever the hell she's doing._

_Finally, finally,_finally_, Maya clearly and decisively states, "No."_

Shit.

_Fuck my life. I should just jump off this roof without opening my wings, save myself the heartache._

_God, no wonder everyone thinks I'm emo._

_Anyway._

"_It's not that I hate you or anything, Fang," Maya elaborates. "You're smart__,__ you're brave__,__ you're a great leader__,__ and you're actually really good with words when you try to use them. But the thing is, everyone knows that you dated Max. I'm Max's clone, and I want everyone to see me as _not _Max's clone; I want them to see me as _Maya_. Do you really think__ dating Max's former boyfriend would help my case?"_

_I shake my head slowly._

"_Exactly. Besides, I don't like you that way. You're a good friend and leader and I respect you, but … I don't. And the weird thing is, I don't think_ you _really like me that way either. You just see me as Max's clone. But I'm a different person than she is. You love Max. Not me, Max. Got it?"_

"… _Yeah," I say._

_Weirdly enough, I'm not at all disappointed by the rejection._

_Because … well …_

_Maybe that winking star was only an airplane, not the star I was looking for._

_Maybe Maya's right._

**DURING THIS BREAK, FANG BECAME EVEN MORE EMO THAN HE ALREADY IS. YOU DIDN'T THINK IT WAS POSSIBLE, DID YOU?**

**This chapter is brought to you by the paradise that is St. Martin.**

**See, my school had vacation this week, so my family and I traveled over to this lovely Caribbean island ... IT'S SO AWESOME. All I do is sleep, eat, read, write, swim, walk, read, sleep, eat ... etc. Well, and miss Lilah (my girlfriend.) But I'll see her tomorrow. So. :)  
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**I managed to finish The Fountainhead, which is, if you don't know, a great book by Ayn Rand, although Atlas Shrugged was better. (DOMINIQUE, ROARK, WYNAND, Y U NO HAVE THREESOME AND SOLVED ALL OUR PROBLEMS?) (Yeah, don't even ask - just read the books.)  
><strong>

**Unfortunately, school starts up again tomorrow ... ugh. Waking up at 6am will not be pleasant. .**

**But a nice review might make it better! ... Maybe? Please? With ... um ... Fax on top?  
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	21. The Politics of High School

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 21: The Politics of High School**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE UNFORTUNATELY LONG TIME IT HAS BEEN SINCE CHAPTER 21 (WARNING: THERE ARE A LOT OF THEM):**

"**But she called me a _whale_!" – my favorite line in 42nd Street**

"**_Dude._ The tube will happen when the tube happens." – Hank Green in the video "LEGO Millenium Falcon Fun"**

"**You don't need to say 'BOOM' when you do this, but it helps." – my algebra teacher**

"**This is the FRESHMAN ONLY bathtub." – myself and my friends in my friend Maddie's dream**

"**You're absolutely sure there's no UN in Iceland?" – one of the history teachers at my school**

"**We are now KEBASA-IFIED." – my band teacher**

"**What holds a government together?" "Duct tape." – my history teacher and a kid in my class**

"**I'm not actually a person – I'm a reptile." "Hi, Reptile. Nice to meet you." – two of my friends**

"**This is a paper clip. It's invisible. Shh, don't tell it – it's very self-conscious." – my friend Hannah**

"**Here's the deal: if you want to do your American Lit homework in band, you have to practice your saxophone in your American Lit class." – my band teacher**

"**HEY! If you're gonna be violent … Hit harder!" – my friend Robin**

"**[_name_] got wished happy birthday by someone with no pants!" – my friend (also, the brother of the person who he's talking about) (also, in this quote, he's talking to his mom)**

"**We spell 'swag' with eight g's – swag-g-g-g-g-g-g-g." – a random Drama person I overheard at the cast party**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This: "I leap off the couch, warmth forgotten, and make for the bathroom like a satyr on enchilada day, only to find that the door is locked." Grover, one of the main characters in the Percy Jackson series, is a satyr famous for his love of enchiladas.**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Hank Green (or, more specifically, his music)**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:****_Bookaholic21_**

**__AND HERE GOES THE CHAPTER. ENJOY OR SOMETHING.**

Panting after the long walk from first-period English, I slip into my seat in the back corner of the Pre-Calc classroom. The teacher, Mr. Sawyers, is droning on about a new grading policy he decided to adopt after realizing that an average grade solely based on three test grades per quarter was not the best system; he won't notice if I don't pay attention. Which is good, because I _can't_ pay attention. This thing with the social class feud is consuming my mind – I have to stop it before someone gets hurt. But how? And am I brave enough?

A hand grabs mine and holds it underneath the desk, a piece of warmth and comfort that spreads up my arm and throughout my body. Just what I needed to feel a bit better.

"Are you okay?" Adam whispers, clear sapphire eyes wide with concern. "I didn't see you before homeroom this morning."

I sigh, then reply quietly, "I missed my buss. Slept in late. I haven't been getting enough sleep lately."

"Too much internet?"

"No, too much thinking.. There's practically a war going on between the popular group and the Don't-Give-A-Shit-ists, and it's pretty much all my fault."

Mr. Sawyers turns around, catches my eye, and gives me a glare – weak, but enough to stifle my conversation with Adam. To compensate, he starts to write on an empty page in his graph-ruled notebook:

_First, it's not your fault. It's theirs, for not letting you choose your own friends. And besides, why do you have to stop it?_

I grab a pen and answer:

_Because nobody else sees sense; they're all caught up in insults and intimidation and all that other crap. It's horrible, and I just know it's going to end painfully._

_Oh, the things I miss by not having fourth-period lunch._

_You can say __that__ again._

_Oh, the things I miss by not having fourth-period lunch._

I kick his foot. He grins back at me, successfully short-circuiting my thought processes for a moment. Or maybe more than a moment …

A good minute later, I write:

_Well, do you have any ides for how I could resolve this before it exponentially grows into something seriously terrible?_

_Can't you just, I dunno, combine equations?_ he replies. _One equation being you, Ella, Iggy, and the others and the other equation being the popular group._

_No, these are people – they're variables, not numbers__. You can't really manipulate people. Or at least, __I__ can't, coward that I am._

_Sorry, I'm good with logic, not drama._

_It's okay._

We've filled the page and Mr. Sawyers is starting on some actual, genuine new material (gasp), so Adam looks at the board, paying attention and taking the minimal possible notes. I try to follow his lead, but I simply cannot concentrate on limits right now.

Adam's equation analogy runs through my head on an eternal loop.

_You can't just combine equations …_

_But some variables work in more than one equation …_

_And systems can be solved using that property._

"EUREKA!"

I suddenly find myself drawing stares the way a powerful magnet draws paper clips.

Slinking down in my seat, I attempt to make myself invisible – but to no avail.

"Liz! Is there something you would like to share with us?" Mr. Sawyers asks, a curious expression on his gaunt, wrinkled face.

"N-no, sir," I mutter, my face turning a _lovely_ shade of red.

The fact that Adam (and the rest of the class, for that matter) seems to find my predicament to be some sort of skit concocted for his amusement is not helping. At all.

**THIS BREAK CONTAINS TWO PERIODS..**

"Wait, you're going to do _what_?"

Ella stops in the middle of the hallway as though transformed into stone and looks at me as though I just suggested taking a round-trip to Libya over the weekend. The waves of people traveling to lunch glare at her, annoyed at the presence of a rock parting the waters.

Taking her by the elbow and dragging her to the side of the corridor, I calmly explain my plan for the second time.

"You know how, a couple years ago, I tried going to that overnight camp and to the day camp we usually go to?" my friend asks once almost everyone has vacated the hallway.

I nod.

"Well, then you should remember that it didn't work."

Another nod, more reluctant than the previous one, as I attempt to discern what she's getting at. It seems to be an analogy of some sort … Hmm …

"See, you can't be in two camps," she continues. "First, the timing will start to conflict – sessions you want to attend at the same time for both camps. Next, you'll have friends from both, and won't be able to keep up with all of them. Then, you won't be able to remember all of the traditions and songs and private jokes of both camps. And finally, both camps will reject you because you're alien, you don't entirely belong to one camp. So you have to choose one or the other. It's just the way life is. _You can't be in two camps,_" she repeats, staring straight at me, her eyes a pair of chocolate-colored drills boring twin holes into my soul.

Well, then. I comprehend what she's attempting to tell me, I just don't agree with her.

"Sorry, Ella," I say, "but I think you _can_ be in two camps. Being in two camps means you can merge them into one big, awesome camp."

"What if the two camps don't _want _to merge?" she retorts.

I shrug. "They might, they might not. But you'll never know until you try, right?"

Ella returns the shrug. "Well, okay, go ahead and try. Just don't expect my support if they turn on you."

My mouth drops into shocked position, then is swiftly closed for fear of serving dual duty as a fly-catcher. (There is some truth to that saying, "Close your mouth, you'll catch flies," you know.)

What I want to say to her – no, scream at her, throw in her face like a bucket of cold mud – but can't because, no matter how much shyness I overcome, I will never be able to stand up to my friends, is this:

"How dare you say something like that to me? Me, who has always had your back. Me, who will follow you to Hades and back. Me, your mattress, your bulwark, the person you can fall back on when everything else is failing? How can you tell a person who has always supported you that you won't support them in a potentially socially lethal action? How? How can you be so heartless? So faithless? Such a … a … a _terrible friend_?"

But I can't say anything, even if I was mentally capable of it, because she's already disappeared into the cafeteria, her presence dissipating like leaves in a hurricane.

**THIS BREAK IS FOR ALL THE VEGETABLES THAT LOOK LIKE PENISES.**

It feels too easy as I slide into my usual seat at the popular girls' table; nobody stares at me, nobody glares at me, nobody speaks to me, and nobody scorns me. Conversation simply carries on around me, honoring our long-lasting mutual agreement to not really care about each other.

The way these people, my friends (because, honestly, they _are_ my friends – why else would I even try this at all?) act as though nothing has changed between us, as though Friday never happened, clearly says to me: "You made the right choice."

_Yes, I did make the right choice,_ I think, hiding a smile, _but it's probably not what you think it is._

Okay. Now. Time for my big speech. The one I've been preparing for all of last period. I can do this. They are not big scary monsters about to devour me for lunch. They are not big scary monsters about to devour me for lunch. They are not –

"Hi everyone this is me Liz well of course you know me what am I talking about um right yeah I have a little speech sort of thing so please hear me out on this and please don't eat me!"

…

That went well.

At least I'm the bearer of their attention now …

"Is this about why you decided to ditch those losers and come back to us?" Cassandra, a tall soccer player with a genuinely kind smile, inquires.

"First of all, they aren't losers," I retort. "They're awesome people. And they're my friends."

"But … I thought we were your friends," the girl says, obviously confused.

"You are," I reply.

"Huh?" is the unanimous reaction.

"Look, both groups of you are my friends," I explain. "You guys are interesting, funny, give great fashion advice, throw the best parties – even if the music isn't always optimal – and, without you, I don't think I ever would have gotten Adam. But they're confident, smart, badass, nerdy, and don't give a shit what other people think of them. I like and appreciate _all_ of you. So can't we just all be friends?"

One of the main disadvantages of negotiating with a group of socially-conscious teenage girls is that none of them are willing to speak until another voices her opinion; they don't know how to think for themselves.

An extremely tense, awkward silence later, Amy, a freckled girl with light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, speaks up.

"I don't see why she can't be friends with both groups, as long as it doesn't impact our friendship in any way."

One of the main _advantages_ of negotiating with a group of socially-conscious teenage girls is that they all agree with one another; just like the Japanese, avoiding open conflict is a must for them.

"It will certainly be a good community service project," Larissa comments. "Being nice to those losers, I mean. It'll be a helpful addition to your college resume. Good idea, Liz! Though I, personally, wouldn't choose that particular project – I don't think I'd be able to stand those nerds," she adds, almost as an afterthought. "How _do_ you do it?"

I shrug. "Well, I _am_ a nerd, myself."

"Yes, but you're _our_ nerd," she replies smiling.

"So how are you going to pull it off without insulting their egos?" Cassandra inquires, truly curious now that social maneuvering, something she excels at even more than foot maneuvering, is involved.

With a sigh, I wonder if they'll ever get it. "No, guys," I tell them, "that's not the idea. I'm not doing this for my transcript or for community service."

They all cease conversing to direct baffled stares in my direction.

"It's not?"

I find myself momentarily daunted by the sudden attention, but with a deep breath and a reminder of my mission, recover my courage and say, "No, it's not. I'm doing this because someone needs to be a mediator to stop this feud that you've started, and nobody else has volunteered, so it seems the task has fallen to me."

They're still looking at me … It's starting to get a little creepy …

"And don't say you don't know what I'm talking about. You know what I'm talking about. You _definitely_ know what I'm talking about. This war between you guys and the group of kids you call the 'losers,' the 'nerds,' the 'weirdos.' They're not losers, but they're weird and proud of it, and nerdy and proud of it. They don't give a shit – and they're proud of it. What have they ever done to you? Not cared about you? Well, why is that such a bad thing? They leave you alone, so why can't you return the favor? What right do you have to impose your way of life upon them? None. So stop. Because soon enough, they won't be able to take it any longer – Iggy and Ella are already starting to snap – and they'll care about you, all right? They'll care about getting revenge. Do you want that? Look at _Romeo and Juliet_. The Montagues and Capulets didn't stop arguing until it had caused multiple deaths. There probably wouldn't be anything on that large of a scale here and now, but it won't be pretty. Do you want that? Well, do you?"

Cue the silence.

And not just our table, either – all the sound in the entire cafeteria has been completely erased, wiped out, deleted.

Seriously.

I can hear everyone _breathing_.

Somehow, during my long, rambling, emotional speech, I stood. Somehow, my voice became loud enough for everyone to hear it – louder than it's ever been in my entire life.

I'm standing, shaking, blushing, and everyone is sitting.

It makes me feel so … _tall_.

This is a bit dizzying.

The loud drum noises sounding in my head aren't really helping, either.

… Wait a second …

Those noises aren't coming from _inside_ my head …

And they aren't really drum noises …

It sounds more like …

Clapping.

I spin around, feeling a bit like a top, looking for the source of this strange sound.

It's Robbie.

Of all the people to first support me, it's the boy whom I've probably hurt the most, for the least decent reason.

I always knew he was a kind, caring guy, but … wow. He really does have a pure heart.

Stunned by the sudden demonstration of admiration from an unfamiliar source, I sit back down firmly on my chair.

And it's as though the motion of my hindquarters hitting the plastic sets off an invisible, soundless signal.

**THIS ISN'T JUST ANY BREAK – IT'S AN _AWESOME _BREAK. BECAUSE IT WAS MADE IN PRUSSIA.**

"… and then, they all started applauding! And by 'they all,' I mean everyone! Not, like, _everyone_ everyone, but still quite nearly everyone. They were all saying things like, 'You're so right' and 'There's enough room in the school for both groups' and 'Pointless conflict doesn't accomplish anything' and, seriously, Adam, it was _so incredibly awesome_, you have no idea."

I pause in my long, excited rant via phone to let my boyfriend speak for the first time in at least five minutes. I'm sitting on the roof of my house, gazing at the sunset – a delicious mixture of reds, yellows, blues, and purples blended together and scattered across the sky in irregular, beautiful clumps.

He laughs, a deep, contented sound. "Once again, I wish I had fourth-period lunch."

"Yeah, I wish you did, too," I say. "Of course, they'll probably all have forgotten about it and be feuding again by tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Well, of course. These are _teenagers_, not Peace Corps. They have the attention spans of squirrels."

"I don't think so," Adam replies, so quietly I nearly miss it through all the static.

"What?" I'm confused as to where he's finding this inexplicable confidence in my persuasive abilities.

"Well, it sounds to me like what you said really stuck with them," he explains. "Besides, you have Robbie on your side. Now _that's_ valuable – it takes skill to be the student council president of a thousand-member class for four consecutive years."

It seems almost as though he's …

"Are you jealous?"

…

(Embarrassed silence embarrassed silence embarrassed silence.)

…

Then:

"Yeah, I guess so," he admits. (I resist squealing in girlfriend utopia at his envy – so cute.) "I wish I had been the one to support you, not that nice-guy jock."

"It's okay, I still love you more," I tell him, hoping he can somehow feel my smile through the phone.

I think he felt it, because I feel him smile back. "You know, Liz, you always know exactly the right thing to say. You'd make a great politician."

I giggle at the thought of me spending my life attempting to convince large groups of people to agree with me – not that different from what I did at lunch today, actually. But still, being a politician requires wearing a suit all the time. Which would mean surrendering all of my awesome T-shirts.

…

I can't believe I'm even _considering_ this idea.

"Are you kidding?" I say. "I could _never_ be a politician – I'm much too intelligent to be successful in that line of work."

He laughs. "Touché."

A comfortable lack of vocal expression ensues.

Or, well, it _does_, until it's suddenly and loudly interrupted by a beep. I attempt to not jump off the roof in surprise.

"Hey, Adam, can I call you back in a couple minutes?" I ask after a glance at the phone's screen. "Ella's on the other line."

"Sure," he answers. "I've been procrastinating on some English homework for the past hour or so anyway."

"Okay, bye."

"Bye. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Smiling – can anyone ever get enough of those words? – I switch the call over to Ella.

"Greetings and salutations! This is the awesome, brilliant, sexcellent –"

"Sexcellent?" Ella interrupts me, laughter clogging up her audio feed.

"Yeah," I reply. "Got a problem with that?"

"You've been spending too much time with Iggy, haven't you?" she accuses. "He's a bad influence, you know."

"No, I haven't," I say. But she can hear the denial in my voice, so there's no use even trying. "Well, maybe."

"I'll have to talk to him about corrupting my friends," she decides.

"Oh, it's too late for that. Besides, he only finished the job. The Internet is mostly responsible."

"The Internet is a bit like an annoying older brother," she says. "It messes with you and insults you and turns you into a pervert and laughs at you when you fail, but it always picks you back up again and knows how to make you smile."

"Ooh, nice," I compliment her. "That analogy may be headed for grand destinations. My list of awesome quotations, for example."

Ella laughs a little. "Thanks."

…

(Awkward silence awkward silence awkward silence.)

…

(Resisting urge to say, "Awkward silence – a gay baby is born.")

…

"So why did you call, anyway?" I inquire.

Another silence ensues.

When she finally speaks, her voice is so quiet, I can barely make it out, a lone lighthouse illuminating a dark, stormy sea.

"I just wanted to … to … to apologize."

…

_Whoa._

Someone, call the New York Times! Ella Martinez just _apologized_!

Seriously, this is pretty much a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

Quietly, ever so quietly, I hit a few buttons on my phone – luckily, I put it on mute earlier – and begin to record the conversation; you can never have enough blackmail on your friends.

Meanwhile, Ella continues, "I mean, after what you said at lunch today, everyone is so completely behind you – supporting you and praising you, even the other I-don't-give-a-shit-ists think you're worth giving a shit about – that it made me feel disgusted with myself for not believing in you. So, sorry."

"Um … apology accepted," I answer, not really knowing what to say to that. "I have to thank you, though," I add.

"Huh? Why?" she wonders.

"Well, you taught me how to be brave," I admit. "Without you, I never would've been able to do that."

"Not really," Ella says. "I'm brave when it doesn't really count – I'm not shy and I can stand up to people I don't like. But when it counts, when a difficult situation comes along or when something significant happens, I don't know what to do. I break down. I fall apart. But you always stay strong and help me through. That's true bravery, Liz, and you have it, not me. I wish I was as brave as you sometimes."

…

Huh.

I've never really thought of it that way before.

Maybe Ella's right. Maybe I'm strong in ways I've never even realized.

…

I doubt it.

But how … She must have been thinking a lot about this in order to give me that whole spiel … I wonder …

"Ella?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we still talking about what happened at lunch today?"

…

_Click._

She hung up.

**THIS BREAK KNOWS THE SECRET. THE SECRET TO WHAT? SORRY, THAT'S ALSO A SECRET.**

**There is a story for each and every one of those random comments up at the top of the chapter. If you're curious, ask in a review and I'll tell any of 'em to you. Some are more amusing than others, so choose wisely, young padawans. :D**

**Well, 42nd Street (the musical I was playing in the pit for) is over. It was really good inspiration for this story, because the pit gets to watch rehearsals and stuff. The only problem is, I was too busy to actually write anything.**

**And now I have this English paper to write …**

**Life doesn't like me at the moment.**

**Ugh.**

**BUT IT'S ALL GOOD! BECAUSE I HAVE FOUR SPEAKERS NAMED AFTER THE FOUR FOUNDERS OF HOGWARTS! (Seriously. I do. I'm gonna write a Harry Potter fanfic about them.)**

**Review! They help me to write faster. :)**


	22. Conversations through Bathroom Doors

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 22: Conversations through Bathroom Doors (And Other Varieties of Angst)**

**RANDOM COMMENTS OF THE UNFORTUNATELY LONG TIME IT HAS BEEN SINCE CHAPTER 21:**

"**And one hundred percent of our proceeds … GO TO US!" – Patrick Murphy**

"**What's up?" "Everything!" – a random kid and teacher I overheard in the hallway**

"**BETSY BETSY BETSY BETSY BETSY BETSY BETSY." "HI." "YOU TOOK MINE!" – Lilah and me**

"**NOO. Don't lick your toe-blood!" – my friend Emily**

"**Why did you just pet my head?" "It's PET-A-FRESHMAN DAY!" "Since when?" "Uh, since I pet Lilah a couple of periods ago …" – me and my friend Maddie (a.k.a. _flyingsaucerscout_)**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: The break "THIS BREAK IS FOR ALL THE VEGETABLES THAT LOOK LIKE PENISES." One of Hank Green's songs, titled "The Vegetables," is for vegetables that look like penises. (Seriously. The lyrics go: "_This is a song for all the vegetables that look like pensies._")**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: ****_FlyingSolo365_**** (A.k.a. Lilah) (A.k.a. my girlfriend) (We have been over this already, have we not?)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Inspector Poirot (If you don't know who he is, I will explain it in a review reply, but … SHAME ON YOU. :)**

I think I might be the youngest boy ever to win the Nobel Prize in Chemistry.

Seriously, this solution is such pure genius; it's a powerful antibiotic acid that will eliminate any and all cells it encounters that don't belong in a human body. Basically, if I give this to Nudge, there's a high probability that it will destroy whatever virus that evil, French bitch shot into her.

And if Nudge no longer has under a day to live, then we aren't under pressure to hand Ella over to Madame any more. And if we aren't under pressure to hand Ella over to Madame any more, we can go find Madame and beat the ever-loving crap out of her for even suggesting that we could sacrifice Ella to her. And if we beat the ever-loving crap out of Madame, then we can live happily ever after.

Of course, I haven't actually _tested_ it yet …

But I'm still confident that it's capable of working miracles. After all, _I_ made it. I haven't been helping Iggy ace Chemistry all this year for nothing.

Well, actually, Ella has been helping him ace Chemistry … And he hasn't exactly been _acing_ Chemistry, more like solid-B-minus-ing Chemistry …

Hey, what's that sound at the door?

_BANG!_

Through the space that the aforementioned door used to occupy, Nudge is visible, brandishing a phone as though it's some sort of prize trophy.

"Hey, Gazzy!" she exclaims, then inquires, "What're you doing?"

"Nothing," I say quickly, covering up my cure-brewing equipment. I don't want her to find out about my genius plan beforehand; I want to surprise her with it, like, "Nudge, look what amazing thing I have done, allowing us to be free from Madame's evil clutches!" "Ooh, Mr. Gazzy, you're so big and strong and smart that I won't ever threaten to behead you with my hairdryer again!"

… Yeah, something like that.

Anyway.

"It doesn't _look_ like nothing," Her Annoyingness replies, "but I'm too lazy to investigate. Max needs me to bring the phone all the way down here for you. She wouldn't even give me special treatment 'cause I'm supposed to die soon! Like, seriously? _So_ totally cruel, don't you think?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," I agree – anything to get her to leave me alone. "So, about that phone …"

"Oh, it's some girl calling for you."

"Liz?"

"No, not Liz. A different girl. Younger. She sounds just like Liz, though … She told me her name, but I don't remember it … It was, like, something related to flowers, I think … or maybe rainbows …"

_Iris?_

As stealthy as a professional hockey player and twice as quick, I snatch the phone from Nudge's grasp – "Thanks Nudge you can go now okay bye" – and, my heart pounding like the approaching steps of a T-rex, say into it, "Hello?"

"Hi, Gazzy. Thank God you finally got the phone. I thought that Nudge girl was _never_ going to get off."

"That Nudge girl" is currently storming back upstairs, mumbling something about how incredibly rude I was and how creatures like me shouldn't be allowed to live.

But I couldn't care less.

Because …

… (wait for it) …

Iris called me!

Iris _called_ me!

_Iris_ called me!

Iris called _me_!

_Iris called me_!

I could Caramelldans to Pluto and back on the happy energy this knowledge gives me. Seriously.

Now if only that happy energy was able to help me out with knowing what to say …

After some very involved deliberation between various parts of my brain, I settle on: "Um. Hi."

Extremely sophisticated, I know.

"You kinda said that already," she says, laughing.

"Oh. Um. Sorry?"

"You asking me or telling me?"

"Telling you?"

"Right, and Liz lets me use the computer whenever I want."

"She does?"

"Oh, forget it. Why did I call, again?"

Wait, she's asking _me_?

"Um … don't you know that?" I ask her.

"Well, I should," she admits, "but I got distracted by this squirrel outside the window – it was _staring_ at me, like it was going to eat me or something – and I totally forgot."

I'm about to suggest that we simply flirt instead (which is infinitely more enjoyable for a romance-deprived, hormone-heavy preteen such as myself) when she decides, "I'll just ask Liz. She's the one who asked me to call you in the first place."

Wait, so she didn't call me of her own accord?

_Doom doom doom._

Life … is meaningless …

Oh, damn it, I'm starting to sound like Fang …

My angsting is interrupted by a loud thump, swiftly followed by an indignant, "Ow!"

"Is everything okay?" I inquire nervously, pressing the phone more tightly against my ear.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Iris replies. "Liz threw a pillow at me for interrupting her ever-so-important … Actually, I don't even know _what_ she's doing, something involving a phone and a whole Hagrid-sized ton of pacing … Anyway, she threw a pillow at me, but she _did_ tell me that I'm supposed to be asking you what Ella's doing. Apparently, Ella hung up on her earlier, and now she won't answer any of Liz's calls. I don't know the details, but it seems serious. We're getting worried."

"Oh." Now that I think about it, I haven't seen Ella in a while. She seemed to be holding up okay under the pressure of being the object of Madame's scheming, but then again, she _is_ a member of the female half of our species; I can never tell what they're thinking (example A: Iris).

"Should I go look for her?" I ask Iris.

"Yeah. And be quick about it – I have only one chapter left in my book and I really want to finish it. Liz only got me to do this because she bribed me with complete domination of the computer all weekend."

Oh, the pain. Demoted below a _book_. _Now reaching a new level of angst – beep_.

_No, Gazzy,_ I chide myself, _this is no time for angst. You have a __mission__ to fulfill!_

_And perhaps if you fulfill it in a badass enough manner, Iris will realize your amazingly awesome superiority and beg you to make hot, passionate love to her on the sands of a tropical beach far, far away from any competition, including books, and –_

"Gazzy?"

"YES!"

"What?"

…

An overenthusiastic imagination can occasionally prove to be a slight issue.

You know, occasionally …

…

I cough nervously. "Uh. Nothing. I'm just gonna go find Ella now."

"Good boy."

… And, now, demoted to _dog_.

_Focus, Gazzy, focus. __Mission__, remember?_

…

_Now, if I were an Ella, where would I be …?_

**THIS BREAK IS ACTUALLY A BAGPIPE. NO, I LIED, IT'S A LAMP. OR IS IT AN ITALIAN? IT'S ALL SO CONFUSING!**

Apparently, I'm not very good at thinking like an Ella, because it takes me half an hour to find the girl.

_And it only takes five minutes to fully traverse the Martinez residence once._

Well, I didn't realize that people sometimes use the bathroom for purposes that don't involve actually _using_ the bathroom.

_The same thing that Max was doing not too long ago?_

You know what? Shut _up_, inner voice of criticism that sounds surprisingly similar to Liz. I don't need your sass.

_Oh, I think you do. I think the world will crash and burn in a hail of Justin Bieber's singing mixed with the wailing of dying ducks and the delightful odor that occasionally escapes the hindquarters of a disgruntled skunk if you don't have any of the beautifully crafted jewels of constructive criticism that come from my brilliant little gray cells._

… You are a scarily creative inner voice of criticism.

_Well, of course! I have a reputation to uphold, you know. Most brilliant inner voice of criticism, three years running._

I didn't know they had awards for inner voices of criticism.

_They don't. I made that up._

Oh.

_You're even more gullible that I thought you were._

Shut _up_.

… And so on and so forth.

But the conversation I had with my inner voice of criticism (which, by the way, I've decided to name Charles, because it kind of reminds me of a stuffy British king, and a lot of them were named Charles) is mere play compared to the one I had with Ella through the door to her bathroom when I finally found her.

"Ella? Are you in there?"

"No, Waldo is in here."

"Are you serious?"

"No, I'm Regulus."

"… Ella?"

"We're sorry, the person you are attempting to contact is not available at the moment. If you leave a message after the beep, there is an infinitesimally small possibility that she will call you back. If she does, it will probably to be to either a) curse, b) rant, c) yell, or d) all of the above. _BEEP_."

"Ella, Liz wants to talk to you. She's really worried."

"Liz can go put a cactus up her cowardly vagina."

"You don't really mean that."

"Who are you to judge what I mean and don't mean?"

"You're just jealous of her because she's more confident in who she is than you are?"

"Oh, did you figure that out all on your own? Somebody, get this boy a prize."

"Ella, you don't have to be –"

"Maybe I do have to be, okay? And maybe this isn't about Liz at all. Maybe this is about how _I_, _Ella Martinez_, am too self-centered to make the necessary sacrifice for the good of the Flock."

"But Ella, you don't have to –"

"I'm sorry, I only respond to 'bitch' at the moment. Now go away, Gazzy, before I _take your penis, cut it off slowly with a pair of nail clippers, and make you eat it._"

As I value my vital regions, I make my escape soon after that threat.

Needless to say, neither Iris nor Liz (who takes the phone later) is satisfied with the outcome of that conversation. All of us are, in fact, even more worried about Ella than before.

But we can't help. There is little equal to a young woman making a difficult decision.

And that goes double if her name happens to be Ella Martinez.

**THIS BREAK ISN'T VERY SMART. SSH, DON'T TELL IT – IT'S SELF-CONCIOUS.**

A couple of hours later, the Flock, Fang, Ratchet, and Dr. Martinez are all gathered in the kitchen, ready to tuck into some of the good doctor's famous burritos.

"Iggy, go get your girlfriend," Max instructs the unfortunate fellow. "Dinner's ready."

"You didn't make it, I hope?" he asks, stalling for time – Ella's been locked in the bathroom all afternoon, despite multiple protests from various occupants of the house (we gave up after she opened the door just long enough to chuck a high-heeled sandal at Fang's face).

"No, Mom did," Max replies. "Though I find your lack of faith in my cooking abilities demeaning."

"Says the witch who managed to burn iced tea," Iggy grumbles.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Now go _get_ her, or neither of you is getting any dinner."

My partner in crime mutters something about the fearless leader's threats not being what they used to, but, ultimately, heads upstairs to make his heroic last attempt to coax the beast out of her self-induced torture cage.

A few anxious Jeopardy-theme-song-repetitions mainly consisting of careful listening for potential domicile destruction later, we hear a scream.

It's not Ella's scream, though – it's something too low and not screechy enough for that. Even though it's something I've never heard before, I can somehow tell precisely what it is:

Iggy's scream.

**THIS BREAK HATES YOU AND YOUR FACE.**

_Flock, Iggy, Liz, Mom:_

_I'm going. Don't look for me – I won't be back. I'm going to face my fate._

_It's __my__ fate, not yours. Please, I'm begging you, don't interfere._

_Juliet wants to save her Romeo._

_I love you all._

_~ Ella_

**THIS BREAK LIKES SUNSHINE, LOLLIPOPS, AND RAINBOWS.**

And lo, for the second time this afternoon, I find myself knocking on a locked bathroom door.

"Iggy?" I ask. "How long are you planning to stay in there, exactly?"

There is no response. Okay, then.

"OI. IGSTER. WE HAVE A RESCUE TO PLAN."

Nothing.

I try pounding on the door for a bit, but that isn't particularly successful, either. Lovely, just lovely.

Why is he ignoring me? It's not like it's my fault that Ella left! I mean, sure, I tried to talk to her, but I had no idea what she was planning! And anyway, Liz, Iggy, Max, and Dr. Martinez are the only ones capable of talking to Ella when she's in one of her PMS-y, teenager-y moods.

… Right?

_It isn't my fault._

…

Is it?

"DAMN YOU, IGGY!" I shout, accompanied by a few additional raps on the door. "I'M STARTING TO FEEL GUILTY BECAUSE OF YOU, YOU BASTARD!"

…

The only thing that could make this even _more_ irritating than it already is would be if there were crickets chirping, further expressing the pointlessness of my efforts.

This is starting to become worrying, actually. I mean, what if Iggy decided to go after Ella all by himself, without even thinking about the potential consequences? He may be smart and a good fighter, but he's only one guy. Plus – even though we forget it sometimes – he's blind. Madame could spring some sort of evil trap on him and he'd have no idea what was coming.

I keep telling myself that Iggy's too smart to try to face her on his own, but as I continue to leave what may become a dent in the door, I'm not feeling so convinced.

Finally, I decided to make one last effort before I call in the big guns (i.e. Max).

_Stench powers: ACTIVATE._

_FAAAAART._

_Creeeeaaak._

"Ugh, Gazzy, what in the name of the holy Bacon gods was that for?" my brother asks, wafting the dark purple odor (a mixture of dog poop, refried beans out of someone's hindquarters, rotten eggs, and PMS-ing teenage girls – one of my specialties) away from his face.

I can't help it – I throw my arms around him, encasing him in a cocoon of relieved Gazzy.

"Dude," Iggy says. "Not cool. I can feel my ability to breathe slowly getting lower … and lower … and lower …"

"Oh, sorry," I reply, releasing him to study his face critically. His eyes are a little red around the edges, but other than that, he seems fine. Then why … ?

"Iggy, why didn't you hear me?"

"Huh? What did you say?"

He pulls a dark, nearly broken earbud out of his right ear and beckons for me to ask again, but I don't need to; his action, along with the fact that I can hear American Idiot playing out of the earbud loud and clear, has given me all the information I needed.

"Nothing," I say, smiling even though I know he can't see it. "I just wanted to know if you wanted to play some video games with me."

"Sure," he answers. "Those pixels are going _down_."

**HI. HOW ARE YOU? I'M FEELING VERY APPLE, THANKS FOR ASKING.**

If we were girls, Iggy and I probably would be using the next hour to have a serious heart-to-heart about Iggy's feelings for Ella, his frustration at how she had left without telling anybody, what he would do if she was actually dead, how he was planning on torturing Madame, and so on and so forth.

But we aren't girls. So instead, we demolish some aliens who were trying to take over the world for reasons that are unclear to me but were somehow related to corn and Christmas trees (it was really very complicated). Oh, and by "demolish," I really do mean "completely destroy." There isn't a single scrap of alien left by the time Iggy's done with them.

You see, guys have this sort of unwritten code that talking about your emotions just isn't something you do. It isn't manly to admit you have feelings. (You can talk about somebody else's emotions – the way Ratchet told me about Fang and Maya, for example – but your own? Totally forbidden.) That's why I don't try to console Iggy about Ella; instead, I help him take his anger and frustration out on fictional aliens by telling him where they are and which weapon would be the best to hit them with.

Besides, even if I _was_ willing to talk to him about that stuff, I don't need to. I've known Iggy long enough that I can tell.

I can tell, by watching him hit those stupid green and blue creatures with everything he's got, by the red circles around his eyes that don't seem to be disappearing, by the way he shouts "DIE" every time he kills an alien, by the barely-noticeable tremor in his voice, and by the way he jumps when he hears any noise that might be the doorbell, that he's angry – angry at Ella for leaving without telling anyone – that he's frustrated – frustrated that he can't immediately go save her – and, more than anything, that he's terrified.

After some seventy-odd minutes of watching my friend, my partner in crime, my _brother_ suffering, I have to break the code just a little bit and say something.

"Iggy, she's going to be okay," I tell him.

And what he responds with scares _me_ more than anything –

"She _better_ be okay, because I don't know if I can go on without her."

Then the doorbell rings.

Once again, the note is folded into a tiny slip of paper and left on the doorstep, its message, once again, in bold, all caps letters.

**_THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION. MEET AT THE PARK AT 11:59 PM TONIGHT FOR MY PART OF THE BARGAIN.  
>~ M.<em>**

**INSTEAD OF OMINIOUS MUSIC, YOU GET AN OMINOUS BREAK. DON'T YOU FEEL SPECIAL?**

**Only two more chapters and an epilogue, guys! WE'RE GETTING THERE AT LAST!**

**I'm going to try to completely finish this story during my April break (the third week of April) when I will be …**

**Wait for it …**

**...**

**IN LONDON!**

**I know, you're jealous. I'm gonna see Big Ben and Stonehenge and Bath and Oxford and the Thames and the Tower of London and a bunch of Shakespeare plays and even more awesome stuff that I don't remember right now and I'm going to see all those things with my girlfriend and my English teacher (who is the best English teacher EVER) AND I'M GOING TO TAKE PICTURES OF MY ENGLAND PLUSHIE IN FRONT OF ALL THE FAMOUS LANDMARKS.**

**That was a long sentence.**

**And also, I'm going to stalk Charlie McDonnell. Mwuahaha.**

**(That was a long explanation for why I won't be answering reviews and PMs during the third week of April, by the way.)**

**Oh, and happy Easter, for those of you who celebrate it. And happy Passover, for those of you who celebrate that. And for those of you who don't celebrate either … HAPPY PET-A-FRESHMAN DAY! Best holiday ever. xD**

**Reviews are loved. And petted. And given cookies. :)**


	23. Determination, the Act of Not Giving Up

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 23: Determination, the Act of Not Giving Up**

**RANDOM COMMENT OF THE UNFORTUNATELY LONG TIME IT HAS BEEN SINCE CHAPTER 22:**

"**I'm just walking with my invisible pimp stick." – a guy I was in London with **

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED:**** This, from Gazzy's inner voice of criticism: "****_I think the world will crash and burn in a hail of Justin Bieber's singing mixed with the wailing of dying ducks and the delightful odor that occasionally escapes the hindquarters of a disgruntled skunk if you don't have any of the beautifully crafted jewels of constructive criticism that come from my brilliant little gray cells._****" Inspector Poirot, a detective character created by Agatha Christie, frequently credits his "little gray cells" as the power behind his great deduction skills. Inspector Poirot could beat out Sherlock Holmes any day, by the way. *prepares for attack of flame***

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: Nobody. I am very disappointed in you chaps. :**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail. (This one is quite easy, so someone had better get it.)**

**WARNING: This chapter contains angst. And serious-ness. And badly-written battle scenes. And bending of reality. Yeah … I'm not so sure of my sanity these days. Perhaps it's because I've been reading ****_Hamlet._**** xD**

**ENJOY!**

* * *

><p>I can't see her standing behind me, but I can feel her presence. It's as though she's a ghost from some bygone era invading my peace of mind to take back something that was taken from her centuries ago. It's creepy, this feeling of being watched, this feeling of no control, as though, with one tap, one pinch, she could destroy me forever …<p>

Damn it, I can't stand this any more.

I whirl around to face her. "What _is_ it, Iris? What is _so important_ that it couldn't wait _one more minute_ until I finished playing this piece? An alien invasion? A nuclear explosion? The release date for the sequel to _How to Train Your Dragon_ has been announced? _What_?"

Used to the emotional outbursts that frequently result form interruptions to my piano playing by now, my sister replies calmly, without missing a beat: "No, but Gazzy's on the phone for you. He's blabbering about something … The only words I could make out were 'Ella,' 'Iggy,' and 'Madame' …"

… Oh. Oh, God.

Immediately assuming the worst, I seize the phone from her grasp (completely ignoring her complaints about my rudeness) and head upstairs to my room, where I can pace, rant, sob, scream – whichever comes first – in peace.

"Gazzy? What is it?" I ask, barely able to wait for an answer but, at the same time, wishing an answer will never come.

His words pour forth from the phone as though it's a leaking pipe, unable to contain the massive pressure within.

"Ella's gone. She left us. She said not to follow her, that she wanted to do her duty, to accept her fate. She said that she was Juliet and she wanted to save her Romeo. She's playing Juliet well, all right. Now, Madame wants us to meet her for 'her part of the bargain' … And she thanks us for our 'cooperation.' That can only mean that _she has Ella_. Ella's being tortured, or maybe even is already dead. Juliet has fallen, and Romeo is only the next domino …

"He's going insane, Liz. We had to tie him up and put him in a closet, he was so determined to go after her. He says he has to see her and save her, and if she can't be saved, go to meet her … Liz, we're all coming apart at the seams. This is more than any battle we've had before. This is the first time that someone who means more to one of us than anything else in the world has been taken – and it's our fault.

"This is separation, terror, not being able to do what we feel like we have to …

"He won't listen to reason. I don't know what reason is. You do, you always have. Please. Do something. I don't know what, something. Even if it doesn't save her, do _something_. _Anything_. Anything is better than sitting here, waiting for a meeting we know we'll never forget, and not for a good reason …"

I came up to my room to pace, rant, sob, scream, but I can't do any of those things, can't do anything but stand here, frozen, as though caught in Medusa's glare.

Gazzy needs me to be the rational one in this situation, but how can I be rational when the situation is _my fault_?

Think about it. If I hadn't been so adamant about getting Iggy and Ella to admit their love for each other, Madame never would have taken advantage of that and my friends would all be safe …

Ella is in life-threatening danger. She might even be _dead_. Because of me.

…

And that is what we call an epic fail.

If only it was the kind of epic fail I could laugh at.

…

Wait a second … have I failed yet? Is everything really lost? She _might_ be dead. Okay. Forget about _might_. I'm going to say that she _isn't_ dead.

I didn't give up when I had to memorize how to write fifty Chinese characters in one night. I didn't give up when I had to play in a piano competition on an old, dysfunctional piano. I didn't give up when I had to play a clarinet audition with a broken mouthpiece. I didn't give up when I challenged myself to write 50,000 words in thirty days. I didn't give up when I thought Ella had given up on our friendship for good.

I didn't give up … and I succeeded.

Isn't this the same thing, only on a bigger scale?

Ella told me that I have an inner strength that allows me to not break down in difficult situations. If she's right at all (and I hope she is), then I can't break down now, because this is the most difficult situation I've ever found myself in.

This is a hole that I dug myself into, but I can climb back out.

_I am a determined girl and I will not give up. Ella is alive and I will not give up. I will save her and I will not give up. _Romeo and Juliet_ will have a happy ending and I will not give up …_

"The first thing to do, Gazzy," I say, a chant of _I will not give up_ echoing in my head, "is _don't panic_. We won't accomplish anything if we're all running around like chickens with our heads cut off. Second, once you've settled down, think rationally. Madame wouldn't have killed Ella already. I heard this woman – she likes torture. Ella's probably with her, wherever she is, and I think I know how to find her. So we have a chance. Third, come up with a plan. We aren't Leroy Jenkins and we can't act like him …"

I'm surprised at how calm and confident I sound – such a contrast to the panicked thoughts my head held only a minute ago. Listening to myself speak, almost as though from a different body, I hear someone who knows what she's doing and believes what she's saying. I hear someone who can get others to follow her. I hear a leader.

… Huh. I never knew I had it in me.

As I give my final commands to Gazzy, the _I will not give up_ slowly begins to form itself, like pieces of a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle coming together, into a plan. It might not be the best of plans, but it's _something._

"… and I'll meet you one block north of the park in half an hour."

"Yes, ma'am," Gazzy replies, his voice now much more composed than it was before.

It's funny … It seems almost as though the determination I molded into assurance has given him rationality and perseverance.

Confidence is contagious.

_**I WILL NOT GIVE UP.**_

It's about nine o'clock P.M. in an office complex, so, naturally, the streets are darker and emptier than a vampire's soul (and not a sparkly fairy's soul, but a _real_ vampire's soul.) I can hear cars, faithful steeds carrying their masters home, somewhere in a different part of the city, but I don't see any. The moon is out, but it's half covered by clouds, casting an eerie, incomplete sort of light on the eerie, incomplete sort of setting – buildings without people, streets without cars, a leader without her enemy.

I know it's irrational, but, as I speed-walk down streets and through alleys toward Coyote Park, I keep expecting someone to leap out at me, pounce like a cat on an unsuspecting mouse.

Of course, with the fear of being attacked constantly foremost in my mind, it isn't long before it actually happens.

My arms are suddenly pinned at my sides – a hand is clamped over my mouth – I can't breathe – I can't think – I'm drowning, drowning in my own panic –

"Gotcha!"

My attacker jumps off of me as quickly as he was on me and faces me in the light, where I can see him. I'm surprised to discover that he is no stranger.

"… _Gazzy_?"

"Yeah!" My winged friend seems proud of himself. "I really surprised you, didn't I?"

He realizes I'm glaring at him with the full force of a thousand beer-deprived Germans and quickly adds, "I was just testing your reflexes, Liz. No harm done, right?"

"Clearly, there _was_ some harm done, you idiot," Max scolds him, emerging from an alleyway somewhere to the left of me. "Not everybody has incredible reflexes and fighting skills, you know."

"Oh. Sorry." Gazzy seems so truly dejected and apologetic that I find myself forgiving him.

"It's okay," I say. "It's just that there are four things I most definitely do _not_ possess: a) physical strength, b) nimbleness of body, c) knowledge of how to fight, and d) the ability to think on my feet."

"It won't happen again. Right, Gazzy?" Max asks with a meaningful look at the miscreant in question.

"Yes, ma'am." He mock-salutes; she glowers.

Meanwhile, I begin to notice others around us: Nudge, Angel, Dylan, Ratchet, Fang … They don't seem nervous or frightened, alarmed or panicked. The looks of grim determination on their faces reveal that this, to them, is simply another battle that must be won at all costs – albeit one with higher stakes.

I say nothing about the one who is missing.

I nod at them – it isn't so much a nod as it's a bow of the head. That's what nodding is, really – a smaller, more badass version of the bow, a way of showing respect and admiration without losing any pride.

Without any sort of visible or audible signal, we fall into a spear-shaped formation with Max at the point and commence marching the remaining block to the park. We are angels of death on a mission. We are revolutionaries ready to give our lives for our beliefs. We are crusaders into the realm of the unknown. We are heroes in the face of a host of monsters. We are. We will be.

Our footsteps pound the concrete sidewalk to the beat of _We will not give up._

_**WE WILL NOT GIVE UP.**_

The park is no longer a mere collection of paths and trees. It is a jungle containing infinite enemies. It is a world of shadows in which they can hide. It is a mine of weapons they can use against us. Simultaneously, it is our stronghold, our castle, our arsenal, our secret weapon.

It is a blank canvas upon which we will paint the story of tonight's battle.

Somewhere in this park is our Holy Grail, and we must take it back from the Frenchman without being hit by the flying cows.

I break the silence of the past few minutes to give instructions: "Okay. We have to search every rock, tree, bush, bench, trash can, et cetera for an entrance. Madame's lair has got to be around here somewhere, or else she –"

"_WHERE IS SHE?_"

The voice is everywhere – or if it isn't everywhere, it certainly _sounds_ as though it's everywhere. I can tell, by the voice-of-God sort of quality it has, the ear-breaking screechiness, and the heavy French accent, that it's her, and she's not very pleased at the moment.

"_TELL ME WHERE SHE IS, OR ALL OF YOU ARE DEAD WHERE YOU STAND._"

All my carefully-laid plans fly out the window, waving to me with clean handkerchiefs and no promises to send postcards.

_Where is she? … But, Madame, that was the very question I was going to ask __**you**_.

"We … we don't know what you're talking about," Gazzy stammers.

"_I'm sure you don't_," Madame replies, her voice the kind of sickly sweet that is as evil as a standardized test. "_I'm sure you didn't send her to me, pretending to surrender. I'm sure you didn't help her to escape, along with the cure for your precious friend's virus. I'm sure you don't __**know where she is now**_!"

We have no response to that; our minds are too full with the complete realizations of what she's just told us – Ella is _alive_! Madame doesn't have her! She has the cure!

But why didn't she let us in on her plans? How did she escape without any outside help? Why hasn't she returned to us with the cure?

And, more importantly, where _is_ she, anyway?

Meanwhile, the vengeful Frenchwoman continues her rant: "_I just can't believe her nerve! How dare she escape from me, the all-powerful scientist with the power to make her suffer immeasurable pain? She will pay for this, oh yes. And __**you**__!_"

All of us glance at one another, baffled as to whom she's addressing.

"_You! Dylan!_"

"Me?" The mutant in question steps forward, as though to confront her – but how could he? She's everywhere.

"_Yes, you! Backstabbing, double-crossing traitor_!"

"What?" His expression is one of confusion, only, somehow, it seems _too _confused, and it's mixed with something else … Panic.

As though he's faking it.

"_Why didn't you tell me what she was planning so that I could have made better preparations, held on to her better? What did I hire you for if you were only going to fail me in the critical moment?_"

It all makes sense now … The way Madame found out about the Flock's new residence at Ella's place … The way she knew where to strike in the first place … The reason the one mutant we managed to capture was "accidentally" killed before we could get any information out of him … It was Dylan. He's been working for her all along. Of course.

The other Flock members must be seeing it, too, because they begin to interrogate him – "She hired you?" "You were a traitor?" "You _lied_ to us?" "How could you do this to us?"

"_Oh, he did it easily, stupid, naïve, young ones,_" Madame answers them for him. "_He did it without any trouble, with a smile on his face. He did it swearing to be loyal to me. He did it begging for as much power as I could give him._"

"And you _will _give me power," Dylan says, an arrogant smirk invading his face as his treachery comes to light.

"_Not after you failed me_," Madame contradicts him.

The smile falters, but sticks, like a stray cat you just can't get rid of once you feed it. "That wasn't my fault. I had no idea what she was planning. _Nobody_ did. It was completely out of the blue."

"_Then why didn't you find out? You're a spy. Act like one._"

"Well, I –"

"_No excuses. You failed. I will not tolerate failures. You will die, and all the rest of them will die for helping her – for preventing me from having my revenge_."

A high-pitched whine comes through the speakers, blasting through our eardrums, blasting through any plans we might have made.

And then, the enemy is upon us.

I don't know where they came from or how they got here – there are too many of them (complete with axes swinging, limbs flying, and eyes glittering with the anticipation of blood) to have time to think. They're an army, but us … We're barely even a squad. I don't know how we'll even survive, much less be victorious.

The Flock, on the other hand, doesn't seem worried in the least. For the first time, I'm struck by how different their lives have been – always on the run, always fighting, always hiding … They didn't need to find their determination in order to face these creatures; they've always had it.

_SWISH!_

"AAH!" I duck the axe as it swings past my head.

_Perhaps, Liz_, I tell myself, _you should spend less time thinking and more time finding the hidden fighting skills that you've always been saving up for this moment._

I focus my inner energy, close my eyes, clench my fists, and try to locate my hidden fighting skills. I _know_ they must be in there – I mean, how else do plucky, courageous heroines manage to save their friends in these sorts of situations?

…

I guess I don't qualify in the plucky, courageous heroine department, because all I get is an axe narrowly missing my right arm and an angry Fang yelling at me to pay attention or I'll be killed, because he won't be there to pull me out of the way every time someone swings at me.

"Sorry," I apologize hurriedly. "It, uh, won't happen again."

The normally apathetic mutant looks at me with a mixture of anger and exasperation, the way one might look at a troublemaking child. "Yes, it will," he says.

He surveys me for a moment, trying to decide what to do with me. After seeming to make a decision, he grabs my arm and yanks me – so forcefully I fear my arm might be drawn out of its socket with a loud _POP_ – until we reach a large pine tree near the side of the fray. The tree looks strangely familiar for some reason, but I can't quite put my (mental) finger on it …

Fang points at the tree. "Climb," he orders.

What I'm thinking: _Dang, why didn't __**I**__ think of that? I __**am**__ supposed to be the brains of this operation, aren't I?_ What I end up saying: "Uh … but … I … I don't know if I can reach …"

Without any warning whatsoever, the possibly emo bird-kid picks me up and lifts me by the legs.

"Now you can reach."

_I can reach, alright, _I think, eyeing the lowest branch, now level with my chin. _But can I pull myself up?_

"Hurry up," Fang tells me, annoyed.

But doesn't he get it? I've never done a pull-up in my life, and I don't think I can start now.

Well, then again, why can't I?

_I can reach this branch and I will not give up. I will climb this tree and I will not give up._

Soon enough, I find myself scrambling onto the branch – straddling it – standing on it – pulling myself to the next branch – climbing higher – higher – higher – until, finally, I can see the entire fight, spread out before me like a sea of varying shades of shadow.

"Thanks, Fang!" I call down to him.

He shrugs – _No problem_ – and plunges back into the throng of battle, darting nimbly in and out of Viking-ish-type-things to strike precisely at their weak points. (He doesn't have his gun with him; it ran out of bullets after the last fight, and hasn't managed to locate the black market for weapons in Mesa yet.) Even though I'm watching him, I sometimes lose track of him, as though he is cloaked in the shadows, in the darkness … As though he is a human chameleon, able to blend in to any setting, able to almost become invisible …

Always near Fang, always able to strike down any villain that might succeed in harming him (because, after all, he would do the same for her) is Max. She fights like a tiger, snarling and biting, pouncing on one target after another – _How dare you threaten my family?_ She's opened her wings – not massive, but beautiful extensions of her body, light tawny brown with specks of gold – and uses them to take to the skies just long enough to select an adversary she deems worthy of a swift death by powerful kicks – kicks that come so fast, the adversary doesn't even know what hit him.

Nudge, in a different part of the park, is fighting with a unique weapon: the park benches. She'll pick one up and use it as a battering ram to hammer at the skulls of unsuspecting Viking-ish-type-things. Her aim never fails, and she never drops a bench (except to discard a broken one and grab a new specimen.) It's strange – it almost seems as though she isn't actually picking up the benches; instead, they're attracted to her hands …

Near Nudge, scattering the enemy with his nose-murdering farts, is Gazzy. I'm proud of my friend; he fights like a score of twelve-year-old boys denied the right to play video games. I can't smell the stink bombs he's letting out of his rear, but, judging from the behavior of those unlucky enough to have one directed at them, they certainly pack a punch.

Far out of the stink-generator's range, I spot a large, heavy, seriously pissed off hunk of mutant. Ratchet is the only fighter of the lot incapable of flying, but he more than makes up for it with his devastating punches. He fights like an unstoppable wall of meat, a charging rhinoceros, a determined elephant. And nobody can even get _close_ to him – he seems to feel them coming and whirls around to meet them, a smirk on his face that says, _How dare you mess with me?_

The most impressive combatant by far, however, is the youngest. Angel doesn't even have to _touch_ the enemy mutants; she simply has to hold up her arms and smile at them – a sweet, innocent, nine-year-old smile – and they collapse, wailing in pain. She has the power and the control. They have nothing.

Okay, is it just me, or do these mutants have powers that go beyond two percent bird DNA? I mean, what Angel is doing … It has nothing to do with her wings. This girl is controlling their minds.

No matter what sort of power they have, though, the Flock can't win. I want to believe in them, but they're outnumbered a hundred to one, and the reinforcements just keep arriving.

This can only mean one thing: Madame is on top of her game. All of the Viking-ish-type-things look identical and fight identically. Seeing them from this high perch, it's now clear to me that they're clones – clones of a set of DNA of ancient Vikings that Madame found on that remote island and manipulated to serve her purposes.

She knows what she's doing, all right … But does anyone else? If she dies, would anyone else be capable of giving orders to the Viking-ish-type-things?

Well, okay, Madame certainly isn't an idiot. There must be others with her who know how to keep things running if she's not around to run them.

Then again … I bet none of those others are as dedicated to getting revenge on the Flock as she is. They might be easily persuaded. (And by "persuaded," I mean _threatened._ Just so that we're clear.)

Without orders, the Viking-ish-type-things will be easily taken down …

_Cut off the snake's head and the body will fall soon after._

Unfortunately, before I can think of a way to accomplish this, the one person who hasn't been involved in the fight so far appears.

Dylan leaps out of a tree not far from my own to scream, "Great army! Noble army! Superior army! You'll get the blood you deserve if you follow my advice! They can't fly if their wings are cut off!"

If their wings were cut off … Not only would one of the Flock members' greatest weapons be eliminated, they would be in such pain from the operation required to eliminate those weapons that they'd be incapable of fighting.

"Why would you _tell_ them that?" Max interrupts him angrily.

"Because I made a mistake," Dylan explains coolly.

"You made a mistake, all right," she says. "You trusted an adult and betray us. Didn't we make a pact never to trust any adults again? Didn't we make a pact to _never betray each other_? What happened to our family?"

"_Your_ family," he replies. "Not mine. I was never a part of your family. But if I became more powerful, I could control the Flock by force. We'd be unstoppable."

The Flock leader smirks. "Well, it looks like you won't be getting any more powerful. You failure."

"No." The traitor turns on her. "My mistake was to not notice Ella leaving her house. I have to remedy that mistake – to win Madame's favor. The only way to do that is to prove myself – by defeating you. I want the reward I was promised."

"_And you will get it, my dear lieutenant,_" Madame purrs from the speaker above my head, pleased that things are going her way.

…

Wait …

The speaker above my head?

The speaker above my head!

The speaker is above my head!

It appears to be a compact speaker, pressed into a crack in the tree bark – but powerful enough to cause pain in my ears when Madame speaks.

Max and Dylan begin to duel – her shouting insults at him and saying that she could never love a traitor – but I'm not paying attention. I have to find out the location from which the speaker receives its signal. It probably won't have a neon orange sign proclaiming "THIS SPEAKER GETS ITS SIGNAL FROM THAT PLACE, RIGHT OVER THERE, NEXT TO THE TREE WITH A SPLIT TRUNK," but … Who knows. I might get lucky.

Just … inch … up … a little … more … and …

_Aha!_

Got it!

…

It's just an ordinary speaker.

_Damn it._

Wait … What is this writing on the back of the speaker? _BLACK DEVUL wuz here changing batteriez LIKE A BAWS. BLACK DEVUL awaits all hawt ladieez who see this in rm 2-B, left leg._

It looks like graffiti, probably from one of the lowest-ranking members of Madame's legion of evil, that I can understand, but … left leg?

_How can a room be in a left leg?_

…

_Oh._

_Of course._

Now, all I need to do is tell the Flock the information I now possess – the location of her headquarters. It's so obvious; really, I should have guessed it before. I would go myself, but … I know that I wouldn't last thirty seconds in that fighting.

Okay, so the one closest to my tree is …

"Gazzy!"

He doesn't respond, but I know he hears me because he moves even closer, clearing the space around him with a massive fart.

"I know where she is!"

He nods.

I point.

Another nod, and he's off.

I watch with bated breath as he easily scampers through the fighting, a mouse underneath a slowly-moving herd of cattle, and disappears into a crevice in Coyote Rock – an entrance to Madame's lair.

Nobody else saw him go, and the fight continues. Minutes tick away as he makes his way to the head of the snake that his comrades are fighting. I watch the battle, unable to help my friends as they grow tired and weary even as they must be more vigilant than ever, thanks to Dylan's comment.

Until, suddenly –

"_Nobody move! Tell them, frog bitch._"

"_Make no moves to hurt or kill the winged ones. I repeat, do not hurt or kill the winged ones. The small, bad-smelling boy has somehow managed to take me hostage, and will kill me if you make any moves._"

I want to cheer, but, in response, another voice cries out:

"Don't you dare hurt her, Gazzy, or this guy won't live to insult me another day!"

Dylan is holding a knife to Fang's throat.

I look at my watch: _12:07._

In five minutes, Nudge's virus will take effect.

Somewhere, a couple of miles away, an explosion sounds.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey, everyone. I'm going to stop apologizing and making excuses for my late updates and just give you what we all want: an end to this story.<strong>

**Chapter twenty-four and the epilogue are both written. They will be posted very soon – chapter twenty-four on Friday night and the epilogue on Sunday. (Just in time for me to face finals head-on. Joy upon joys.)**

**I held off updating this chapter in order to do that for all of my lovely readers – so that you guys would get a swift conclusion to this story, without cliffhangers that go unresolved for weeks.**

**Thank you to everyone who stuck with me and my strange story.**

**Reviews are loved. :)**


	24. Madame Goes Moldy

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**CHP 24: Madame Goes Moldy**

**RANDOM COMMENT OF THE LAST APPROXIMATELY TWO DAYS:**

**"****Yes, I have the Pokémon theme song on my iPod. Don't judge me." "Oh, I'm already judging you – judging you ****_awesomely_****." – two guys I have band with **

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: This: "Somewhere in this park is our Holy Grail, and we must take it back from the Frenchman without being hit by the flying cows." Do I even need to explain it?**

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME:**_**Death-by-Curls**_**(And then a bunch of other people found it after her.)**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE:**_**Romeo and Juliet**_**(the actual play) AND Avatar: The Last Airbender (Yeah, there are two. This chapter is twice the length of my normal chapters, so there are two references in it. Anyone who finds them both gets a request~! :D)**

**So I went to post this, and something like this happened:**

**MS Word: So, I decided to randomly delete parts of your document, copy other parts, and italicize a few words every paragraph for no apparent reason whatsoever. That's cool, right?**

**Me: WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN.**

**Yeah, it was pretty annoying. But after a bit of ranting to my mom (who totally didn't understand my pain), I took an hour and a half to fix everything, and so here we are. Enjoy, you amazing readers, you.**

**WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS A LONG-ASS CHAPTER. THINK 7,000 WORDS. YEAH.**

_There is only one true way to fight, and that is to be determined to win. There is only one true way to lose, and that is to give up._

The words echo like a battle cry in my head as I plunge through lines of my enemies, trying not to notice the fact that my entire body aches – exhaustion, received punches, landing too hard too many times, and the severe need to piss tend to do that to a person.

Not that exhaustion, received punches, landing too hard too many times, or the severe need to piss will stop me, because I am GAZZY, THE INCREDIBLY, BADASSLY, UNSTOPPABLE FART-MAN!

No, seriously, I am on _fire_. (Well, not literally. But I bet I could be if I wanted to be, and I wouldn't even get burnt, because I'm just _that awesome_. I feel as though my powers are developing, intensifying, improving just for this occasion, as though the stress and the thrill and the determination are releasing some kind of chemical in my brain, giving me the ability to generate bigger, more controlled, and – most importantly – more _potent_ unpleasant gases out of my behind, as well as the speed, stealth, and other general ninja skills necessary to duck, jump, and roll between adversaries – keeping me alive as I race through the fighting.

Both of these things are good, because I need them to perform my duty: to break into Madame's stronghold. According to Liz (and, despite all the pranks she's played on me and times she's made fun of me, I trust Liz), this stronghold is located in Coyote Rock, the rock for which this park was named.

My goal is to infiltrate it and take Madame hostage in order to persuade the Viking-ish-type-things to spare my family. Actually, it's not just my goal – it's what I have to do. I will do it. I can, I will, and because of my faith in those facts, it will happen the way I want it to. I can't disappoint my Flock. I have been entrusted with this information, so I must be the one to save them.

_This is _**_your _**_moment of glory, Gazzy. You can do this._

… So I keep telling myself.

Okay, I'm at the rock now. Coyote Rock isn't actually shaped like a coyote, unless you either a) squint really hard, b) are mostly blind, or c) use your imagination. It has something vaguely resembling a head (complete with what might be a snout), legs of some sort, and an oblong, rectangular sort of body. From where I stand, at its base, it basically looks like a few slabs of grayish-blue rock, worn down by age, wind, rain, ninjas having rock-climbing practice – you know, the works.

… Wait a second. It's not _entirely_ grayish-blue; what's that spot of bright red, up there on the tip of what would be the coyote's snout, if it was an actual coyote?

I open my wings (I hid them after Dylan's announcement for their own protection), use them to fly up to the head to get a closer look, and discover that the entire snout's tip has been, in fact, covered with red paint of the most obnoxious variety.

Wow. Way to be subtle, Madame.

Now, the problem is: how can I get in? It seems clear that pressing the snout opens the entrance door, but it will almost certainly be rigged with traps that you can't get past unless you just happen to be the evil lady or one of her henchmen.

Hmm …

I look around, searching for a solution …

…

Oh! That works.

Luckily for me (and unluckily for him), a Viking-ish-type-thing is currently charging at me, battle-axe ready to decapitate me, deprive me of a good deal of blood, steal my hidden stash of Bacon, or something else equally unpleasant. I quickly dispatch him with an Incredibly Badass Flame Fart (thus named because it causes the throat of the unfortunate who receives it to feel as though it is on fire), hoist him up by the collar of his armor, and press his hand to the coyote's snout.

And … nothing happens.

I'm so shocked by this new development that I actually drop the Viking-ish-type-thing on the ground. I think it cracks his skull, which is a shame, because I was going to use him to get past further security.

Not that I'll even be able to get _in_, now that I've pretty much failed to correctly determine the location of the entrance.

_Smooth, Gazzy, not realizing that it was so obvious, it must have been a decoy. Very smooth._

Ignoring my inner voice of criticism, I drop back to the ground to search further.

…

Oh, hello, Mr. Large, Suspiciously Door-Shaped Hole in the Rock. How did you get there?

…

_Gazzy, you are an _**_idiot_**.

I know that. God. Shut _up._

_Is that really the best you can come up with?_

Um, yea – I mean, no! No, of course not! I was just … uh … surprised that I found the entrance!

_Whatever puts you to sleep at night._

…

_Ignoring my inner voice of criticism,_ I approach the suspiciously door-shaped hole (a.k.a. the entrance to Madame's lair.) It appears to be … well … a normal, door-shaped hole, except for the fact that it leads to a Terrible Torture Cavern of DOOM and DESTRUCTION.

…

No, not really. I made that up.

…

It isn't exactly pissing off a teenage girl, though. Think of the most imposing, high-security building you've ever entered, add a bunch of rotating lasers and an armada of cameras, and you'll get the idea.

Of the Flock members, I am probably the least skilled at dodging lasers, so I'll have to rely on my technological abilities to get through the entranceway into the main part of the headquarters.

_Your technological abilities? _**_What _**_technological abilities?_

I have technological abilities!

_Such as …?_

Well, I'll just disconnect … uh … that thing … from that other thing … and … um …

…

Okay, maybe I'll just use my fart powers.

_That's the smartest idea you've had all day._

Thank you! … Wait, was that an insult?

**_You _**_figure it out._

…

**_Ignoring my inner voice of criticism_**, I concentrate on forming a gas that will short-circuit all the electrical currents in this room, turning off the lasers and cameras. I've never created something of this magnitude before, but I think I can do it. Because I think I can, I know I can. Because I know I can, it will happen.

It. Will. Happen.

…

_FAAAAAAAAAAART._

With a flicker of annoyance, the electricity capitulates to my desires.

_Yes._

The only light in the room now is coming from the doorway to the next one. I feel as though I'm traversing a tunnel to Heaven as I pass through one empty space and into another – except that Heaven wouldn't be this eerie. Once there, I eliminate the electricity with another fart and head to the room after that. I continue the process, traveling from room to room, taking out the electricity as I go to keep myself safe.

The rooms I pass through are lonely, empty affairs – abandoned barracks, bathrooms, cafeterias, training areas, armories, all designed as though for a prison. The Viking-ish-type-things aren't human and certainly aren't peaceful, but I still feel sorry for them, living in this walled-in, sunlight-deprived, underground prison of a home, carved into a rock and the soil underneath.

There is only one room I see that I believe to be occupied – walking the length of a large area vaguely resembling a main hall (perhaps the place where Madame made speeches to her minions about how they would achieve victory or brains or pizza or whatever), I notice a locked door marked, "CLONING ROOM." Behind the door, I can hear machinery clanking away and voices talking excitedly in a foreign language.

For once, my curiosity doesn't get the better of me, and I move on.

By climbing staircases whenever I locate one, I finally reach what I believe to be the top level of the place. It must be the top level because a) the rooms are much smaller and there are fewer of them (the head of the coyote is a good deal smaller than the body, after all) and b) there are actual _windows_ here – tiny windows impossible to see out of, but windows nonetheless. By the luxury, strangeness, and distinct scent of French perfume possessed by the rooms up here, I believe this level to be Madame's personal apartments.

Her command center can't be far off.

The final staircase I must climb to face her at last stretches up from the end of the hallway, reaching up to her like a challenge, a taunt of _I bet you can't defeat me, you young, inexperienced, overconfident pup._

Well, you know what, Madame?

I _can_ do it.

_Challenge accepted._

The sound of my foot hitting the last step of the staircase echoes in my mind like the grandest trumpet fanfare of announcement, and I'm in.

It isn't a large room, but it seems larger because of how wide and circular it is and by the mammoth screens that line all of the walls – screens watching the battle outside, the entrance to the park (the way she knew we were here, I realize), every room in the headquarters, and, for one on the far left, _Phineas and Ferb_ (yeah, I have no idea.)

I'm pleased to note that most of the screens are blank, and that the two people sitting at a control board underneath them with their backs to me look … well … baffled, to say the least.

"But how did he _do_ it?" one of them, a tall woman in a silver suit (and by silver, by the way, I really mean _silver_– think shiny enough to be almost reflective) with short, dark hair who carries herself like the ruler of the world demands in a shrill, most definitely _not_ amused voice.

She must be Madame. My fists clench, almost of their own accord. She threatened my family. She will _die._

"I … I have no idea, Madame," the other one, a short, bald, anxious man in a lab coat – God, I hate lab coats – replies. "There isn't sufficient evidence to determine how he managed to dispose of the camer_as and ot_her security measures. It's as though he simply willed them to be shut off."

Madame slaps him. "That's impossible, you tallow-faced baggage! You have a brain, don't you? Use it!"

I don't think the Lab-Coat Man has much of a brain, but I certainly do, and I use it to come up with a plan so brilliant it's _des__tined__ to work._

A few buttons undone and a bit of equipment partially unsheathed, and I'm ready to put it into action.

"I'm sorry, Madame, but I just don't believe he's capable of that," I inform her as I render her unfortunate underling unconscious with an Acid Fart.

She swivels around in her swively chair (which, I admit, is totally awesome – note to self: I must steal it before my departure later) and I'm struck by how beautiful _she is__._ She isn't b_e__a_utiful in a traditional way, with large eyes, a round face, a pretty smile – no, she's beautiful in an aristocratic wa_y, __wit_h a sharp face that would cut you if you got too close. A woman like her would make either a great queen or a dark sorceress. There is nothing better than the line of her mouth, twisted into an expression of mirth, and the replacement of joy by anger and loneliness in her eyes to express her choice.

"Hello, young man," she says, still smiling that twisted smile. "So nice of you to come."

"It'll be even nicer when I take you down, you witch," I snarl back, cold fury racing through my veins like liquid nitrogen. "I'll make you pay for what you're doing to my family."

Her smile only grow_s __wi_der and is soon accompanied by a laugh, the awkward lovechild of a victorious _Caesar__ a_nd a drunk hyena. "Oh, you will, will you? And how, pray tell, do you propose to do that?"

Strange. I expected her to know that by now.

"Um, the same wa_y _I knocked your friend unconscious …"

She laughs again. This is seriously starting to freak me out.

"Oh, Gazzy, Gaz_zy,__" _she says, smiling so widely it seems as though her face might split apart, "do you really think I would be so stupid as to not take precautions against your … ah … special abilities? I've created a surgery that makes me temporarily incapable of smelling and used it on myself – after trying it out on some members of my faithful army, of course."

…

Oh, shit.

This might be a problem.

…

Or it would be, if it wasn't for my brilliant plan!

(You'll learn what it is in a second, okay? Stop asking me to tell you. That would ruin all the suspense!)

Now it's my turn to grin knowingly at her – or, more accurately, grin creepily at her. (Iggy has taught me well; I have a superb pedo face, if I do say somyself, and I do.)

"I thought you might do that," I tell her, "and planned accordingly."

And then, before she has the chance to make a comeback, I am across the room, seizing her in a headlock that, fueled by rage and determination as it is, is enough to rudely introduce her to a state of u_ncons_ciousness. You se, the thing about evil scientists is that they let their minions do all the fighting for them, never bothering to learn about self-defense themselves.

I use a piece of broken electrical cord found in a spare closet earlier to tie her to her chair, safely caging the beast. Now, all I have to do is … ah … persuade her to surrender.

A drop of liquid, faintly tinged with _ye_llow, drips down Madame's cheek, past her nose, and off her chin.

The scientists' face is suddenly dominated by large, furious, emerald-colored orbs.

"Hello, Madame," I greet her, probably sounding like one of those overly friendly, pedophile-esque teachers often found in schools of the middle-aged variety. "How was your nap?"

"It left much to be desired," she answers – and then, she fully realizes the position in which I have placed her. "You little scoundrel! How dare you put me in such a compromising position?"

"Well, um, it wasn't very difficult, actually," I say. "I put you in a chokehold until you were unconscious, and then I tied you up, and then –"

"Shut up." Somehow, even though I'm clearly the more powerful person in this situation, she still manages to glare at me with enough force to seriously freak me out. "I'm not done yet."

"Oh, okay. Sorry." I do as instructed, allowing her to rant to her heart's content (if she even has one, which I'm starting to doubt.)

"I am a powerful scientist! I discovered how to create artificial human beings from ancient DNA! I know how to alter – and enhance – the power of any mutated human! I am all-powerful! You will pay for tying me up!"

…

"Are you quite finished?" I ask her calmly.

This only seems to further antagonize her, but she manages to control herself enough to simply nod.

Very good – this means I can finally make my demands from her!

"Okay, so," I begin. "I expect you've noticed the fact that I'm currently not wearing pants or underwear."

She rolls her eyes. "I've been trying not to."

"Well, that is for a very specific Reason."

"Really. Do go on."

The sarcasm is not appreciated, but I suppose I can deal with it for now. So, I fulfill her request:

"The Reason is that … well … Let's just say that it's been a very long time since I last used a toilet, and also the liquid on your face that woke you up wasn't water. I assume you now realize what will happen if you don't do exactly what I say."

To emphasize this last statement, I climb up on the desk next to her chair and position the physical incarnation of my manliness uncomfortably close to her face.

It doesn't take long for her to figure out precisely what I'm fully capable of doing to her, and doesn't take long after that for her to react.

"Noo! Not the face! Anything but the face! Do you have any idea how much money this face cost me? Nose job, forehead job, braces, retainers, not to mention hordes of creams, blushes, lipsticks, eye shadows … I've spent years perfecting this face, and your disgusting, British –"

"Avian-American," I correct her.

"– same thing – piss could ruin everything! There are some things that are simply unforgivable, and the defacement of an upstanding, French lady's face is one of them!"

…

Well. That wasn't exactly the reaction I was going for.

…

It was better.

_So_ much better.

She seems genuinely terrified of me right now; if I hadn't tied her hands behind her back, she would probably be cowering, hands shielding her precious face.

…

Just to show her that I mean business, I move my man-cucumber closer to her precious face.

"Show me how to use the loudspeaker," I command.

Shaking with fear, she inclines her head towards a microphone near my left foot. It's fairly self-explanatory to operate, and I speak into it:

"_Nobody move! Tell them, frog bitch._"

"_Make no moves to hurt or kill the winged ones. I repeat, do not hurt or kill the winged ones. The small, bad-smelling boy has somehow managed to take me hostage, and will kill me if you make any moves._"

Below us in the park, everything stops. (Well, except for breathing and heart beats. If those stopped, it would be majorly not good. But you get my point.)

I'm feeling very proud of myself until I hear:

"_Don't you dare hurt her, Gazzy, or this guy won't live to insult me another day!"_

Dylan is holding a knife to Fang's throat.

Madame cheers._ "__My brave lieutenant, fighting to keep me from harm! Continue with this superb behavior and you will be well rewarded."_

Dylan smiles (what he probably believes to be villainously), making him look like a constipated cobra. he presses his knife closer to Fang's throat – a few drops of blood escape and fall to the ground, hitting it one at a time, almost in slow motion, like seconds on a clock, ticking in a downward spiral towards our doom.

The stoic leader himself is as still and composed as a Buckingham palace guard on duty.

This situation, in technical terms, is called a "stalemate." In Gazzy terms, it's called a "holy-fucking-shit-the-pressure-is-killing-me-somebody-move-before-I-die-of-impatience situation." I think my term is better, but whatever you call it, it seriously is not fu_n._ It's like when this impossibly strict teacher hands back the papers that will determine ninety percent of your final grade in her class, only _worse._

I _know_.

The distant explosion isn't exactly helping matters, either.

Wait …

_Distant explosion?_

I only know of one person in the greater Mesa area capable of producing an explosion of that magnitude, and I (as an expert in the field of Things that Go boom) make it my business to know these things.

… _Iggy …_

I can't think about the implications of that bomb. It can't be true. He wouldn't. He just wouldn't.

_But what about what he told you to the contrary? What about the way he was acting before you left?_

That is of no consequence. I have to finish what I started. Any distractions will be trodden on, impaled, used for target practice, and then dropped into the city sewer.

Of course, _that_ resolution jumps out the window when, what can't be more than a minute later, something happens.

Or, more accurately, several things happen. In the space of about twenty seconds.

Since it's quite chaotic, I'll list them, to make things easier to comprehend. (American readers, remember?)

1.) Somebody yells "CHARGE!" in the sort of voice used by famous military commanders, actors playing famous military commanders, anarcho-punk band leaders, teenage boys determined to eat the last slice of pizza, and so on and so forth.

2.) A whole bunch of people pour from the back entrance of Coyote Park (the entrance not watched by Madame's cameras) in the nature of a charging army of reinforcements, well-fed, well-armed, and ready for battle.

3.) The identities of these reinforcements begin to become visible, but I simply cannot believe what I'm seeing – Ella – Dr. Martinez – Iris – Maya – Star – Kate – Holden – Jeb – Adam – last (but not least, as he's the most surprising of all) Craig, the obnoxiously clever four-year-old son of one of Liz's dad's friends.

4.) Dylan is so shocked by the influx of new fighters that he lets the knife slip.

5.) Max seizes the opportunity to leap (and, yes, I mean _leap_ – think hare on steroids) onto her former boyfriend.

6.) _I _am so shocked by the influx of new fighters that my bladder simply can't take it any more.

Did you get all of that?

If you did, good. If you didn't, shut up. Nobody likes you.

Moving on …

Sudden shock is not good for stressed Gazzys. It often causes their bladders to empty.

For this reason, one particular expensively-made-up face is swiftly coated in a layer of pee.

Before I know it, the owner of aforementioned expensively-made-up face has broken her bonds (I think her method of doing this has something to do with razor-sharp fingernails, but I'm not entirely sure, as it happened so quickly) and is holding a gun to my head.

Never underestimate the fury of a French woman whose face has been peed on.

_Never_.

…

I … I don't think I've ever been this close to death before … Holy shit, what if I actually _die_? I don't want to die! There are bombs to make, video games to beat, pizzas to devour, Irises to court …

And a French lady holding a gun to my head.

"Now, my foul-smelling friend, how should I kill you?" she asks, as though she'll give me any say in the matter whatsoever. "I _am_ an expert on the subject, you know. Wrote a thesis on it once … I could cut off that dirty little pecker of yours and make you eat it … I could attach a cage of rats to your stomach and light a fire at one end so that they'd have to gnaw through your stomach to escape … I could douse you in water and then take you to northern Siberia and dump you in the negative-sixty degree weather … I could simply impale your derriere on a spike … I could crucify you with rusty nails … I could chop off your head with a dull axe, see how long it takes … So, what will it be, little brat?"

"Um, none of the above?" I squeak.

"Not an op –" she starts to reply, before she is interrupted by a voice from the entrance to the room.

"Let him go."

It sounds like Liz, but it isn't Liz … _Iris._

For a moment, I forget my impending doom, because it is Iris, and though she is covered in mud and blood and God knows what else and though she shouldn't be here and though she might die with me, she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

But the French bitch doesn't see her that way.

"Maybe …" she says slowly, looking at Iris like she's a piece of meat waiting to be cooked, "you're right. There _is_ another option. Come closer, dear," she adds, looking at Iris. "I won't hurt you."

"Right," Iris says sarcastically, "like you're not holding a gun to Gazzy's head right now."

And then – praise be to all the gods out there, even the weird ones – the gun is removed.

"But I'm _not_," Madame protests.

"Well, then, good," Iris decides. "Come on, Gazzy. Let's leave, before she tries again."

"But … but … um … I have to …" I stammer.

"You have to _what_?"

"Kill me," Madame explains helpfully. "But now, he can't, because –"

– she is across the room, grabbing Iris, pressing the gun to _her_ head instead –

"– if _he_ kills _me_, _I_ kill _you_."

…

_Oh, shit._

If Madame wanted to torture me, well, she's an expert, all right. It's as though I have to jump off a cliff and can only jump into the pit of acid or the pit of lava.

Iris struggles, but it's equivalent to a fly attempting to escape a frog once already in its moth.

Madame begins to laugh.

I say "begins" because she ceases quickly – with the realization that she has another unexpected visitor.

"You guys are, like, _totally_ doing this all wrong."

I didn't think I'd ever be glad to see Nudge, but … I'm glad to see Nudge. She can barely stand and looks like she's about to throw up, but …

She is a force of nature. We can win, now.

"Iris," she barks, suddenly the commander of our tiny force. "Stop acting like a damsel in distress. You're, like, totally cooler than that. Gazzy, you're being, like, all 'aah, I don't know what to do, somebody save me.' Also totally not cool. And as for _you_ …" She turns on Madame. "You are totally evil. I need to, like, spit in your face. Hold him down for me, will you, guys?"

I've regained the power of thought, and I know what she's planning. Iris, non-damsel-in-distress that she is, bites Madame's gun arm. I dash forward and seize the other. It's like holding a slippery pig but, with determination (and, in Iris' case, strong teeth) we manage.

Nudge hobbles forward, so weak she can barely walk, but she is going forward.

When she reaches Madame, she doesn't spit in the French bitch's face. Instead, she lifts her hands – and I see, for the first time, that one holds a knife.

Nudge presses her right index finger against Madame's and, with one smooth motion, slits them both.

Blood intermingles with blood.

The virus is in.

I watch Madame's face as the virus she created takes hold of her – taking the phrase "taste of your own medicine" to a whole new meaning. First comes shock, then fury, then … sadness. That it should come to this. That all of her hard work was for nothing.

I don't feel sorry for her.

Iris and I walk away, turn our backs as the life leaves their faces, their cells destroyed, their breath slowing, their bodies failing.

We can just barely hear their last words:

"How … did you …"

"Speed it up for you? I, like, willed the metal molecules to take on more electrons, making the charge of the virus higher."

"No … I mean … you … lived … too long …"

"Well, I had to kill you first."

"You … little … amazing … bitch."

**THIS BREAK WAS STOLEN BY A MAGICAL FLYING BISON. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.**

It's not until we reach the base of the rock and exit through the door (still open from when I short-circuited the electricity that would have closed it) that I realize that Iris and I were holding hands.

I don't have long to enjoy the _amazing feeling of sunshine and lollipops and rainbows and unicorns and all things wonderful and happy and Bacon-tasting_, though, because I find myself glomp-tacked by a flying mound of four-year-old.

"GAAAAAAAZZZZYYYYY!"

"Um … Craig … I'm excited to see you, too, but … Uh … Ability to breathe … Disappearing … Life … Fading …"

Iris tickles him, causing him to let go of me. I set him on the ground, mouthing a silent thank-you to her.

She grins. "You owe me one."

I attempt not to blush heavily.

Craig, completely oblivious to the Moment happening above him, begins to speak – and if there's one thing I know about Craig, it's that once he starts talking, he doesn't stop. Sort-of like Nudge, only – Only I don't want to think about Nudge.

"I can't believe you're still alive, Gazzy! Well, I mean, of course you're still alive, you're the Gasman, you can shoot fire out of your butt – but you're okay and everything! And if you're down here, that must mean you defeated Madame! And we defeated all of her soldiers, so that means we won! Yay! We're the best! We won, and nobody even got hurt – except Fang, but he'll be okay, Max keeps saying he will be, and Max is awesome enough to be trusted on important stuff like that. So, anyway, we're the best! Aren't we? Aren't we …"

He notices that I'm not smiling with him.

"Gazzy …?"

And then, he notices that someone's missing.

"… Where's Nudge …?"

I let my hea_d _h_a_ng, a cut string on a lonely puppet. I can't tell him. He's too young, too full of life to experience death …

God. And I'm only twelve.

"What has Madame done?" Iris whispers – and I wonder if she's thinking the same thing I am.

"Iris! Gazzy!"

"Liz!"

The master plotter herself charges out of the trees toward us, dragging her boyfriend with her. I don't think I've ever seen her fun so fast before, not even when Ms. Jasani gave us hot chocolate at a late rehearsal.

Her charg_e _comes to an abrupt halt a couple of steps away from her sister.

Iris grins and holds out her arms. "We-didn't-die-so-all-is-sunshine-lollipops-and-rainbows hug?"

"Um …" Liz looks away. She isn't one for hugs. (Which I totally don't understand, by the way. Who wouldn't want a hug? Especially from Iris … Heh.)

"How about a we-did-it-we-bashed-'em-wee-Nudge's-the-one-and-Madame's-gone-moldy-so-now-let's-hug hug?" Iris offers.

Liz laughs. "Okay, you got me with the Harry Potter reference."

As Iris tackle-glomps her sister, I look at Adam, hoping for some clarification. "That was a Harry Potter reference?"

He shrugs. "It's been a while since I read them, too."

The two girls catch up, retelling their battlefield experiences to each other (their stories so full of private jokes, references to books, movies, anime, and manga, and combinations of the two that I have no idea what they're saying) while I interrogate Adam about the fight with the Viking-ish-type-things and where the hell he came from, anyway.

Apparently, before Ella surrendered herself to Madame, she called up her father and anybody she could think of who might be a capable fighter to inform them of her plan. (Adam was a "capable fighter," he told me, because he was unquestionably one of the smartest kids in their grade and had a lot of combat video game experience. He ended up sitting in a tree with Liz, chucking pinecones at people. I guess combat video games don't help much in the way of actual combat. Go figure.) Jeb, in turn, contacted the remainder of Fang's Gang – I guess he and Fang maintained contact after Max broke it group of them rescued Ella and stole the antidote from Madame, then were en route to return to the Martinez house with it when we showed up at the park.

Bad timing and miscommunication, it seems, are the m_ajor_villains in both the play Romeo and Juliet and here.

Well, at least, in our case, both of the two lovers aren't about to be sealed into a crypt –

Oh.

I remember the explosion.

Oh, God.

I begin to walk faster.

**THIS BREAK IS SPONSORED BY AIR. YOU KNOW, THE TYPE YOU BREATHE.**

Arrival at the clearing where most of the fighting took place does little to lighten my spirits.

It isn't the destroyed trees, the blood-stained ground, the masses of dead, unconscious, or seriously injured Viking-ish-type-things scattered everywhere as though they had been dumped into a blender and then blended on high without a lid, or the general likeness of the clearing to post-World War II Europe that gets me – all of those things are normal for places where the Flock has been engaged in some major butt-kicking.

What shocks me is the lack of celebration.

Or, more specifically, what people are doing instead of celebrating.

In other words – gathered around someone's body.

_But I thought Craig said there were no casualties!_ my mind cries, pleading with me to see sense, to calm down, to not panic, not panic, not panic –

I don't even realize I started sprinting until I arrive at a gap in the crowd and am able to see what's going on, who they're gathered around.

He looks perfectly fine – except for the deathly white color of his face and the waterfall of blood pouring from his neck.

Max is sitting next to him, his hand clenched in hers as though she won't let go, even if he doesn't make it. The sight of him has finally sunk in enough that sound comes back, and I can hear her screaming.

"You can't go – You can't – You can't leave me here – I need you – I'm an idiot – I don't deserve you – But I need you – And you have to be okay – You just have to – Damn it, Fang –"

I don't know how long she goes on like this while the rest of us sit there in shock, watching – an audience of statues, unable to ease her pain.

Then, suddenly, she seems to notice us for the first time.

"Get out! OUT! You can't see this! I won't let you! I'm the Flock leader, damn it, and I won't let you …"

She collapses onto his chest, not sobbing, but simply collapsing, as though there is nothing to hold her up any more …

I glance up – Liz is looking at me.

She needs to be alone, she seems to say.

I nod.

The two of us herd the others out of the clearing; it isn't difficult, as they're little more than mindless beasts, trying not to comprehend what might be happening to Fang.

Once they're all out of earshot, I find a tree to sit in, a place that I can close my eyes and let everything wash over me, a wave of experiences I wish I could forget …

But it's no use.

I can hear her.

"Fang … Fang … Fang, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. I didn't see that Dylan was out to hurt us. All I saw was that he seemed to like me … He did what I asked, he never argued, never complained … He was the perfect boyfriend _… _But it was all an act, only an act … And what I was playing was only an act, too, something for the others, to keep them from realizing how broken I was … Broken because you weren't there … What we had, Fang, it was never fake, was it? I thought it was broken, because you went away, but it wasn't, it never was, it was only cracked, the middle falling but the edges still holding together … And now, I finally see the crack, but it's too late to duct-tape it up … It can't be too late. Why does it have to be too late? Oh, I know, because I deserve it. I was incompetent, and this is my price … But does it have to be you? You never deserved this. You've become so independent and so strong, and I wish I could get to know you all over again, but I can't. I'm sorry. It's my fault, it's all my fault, and I'm sorry. That can never repair it … Sorry is only a word … I just wish you could forgive me … I forgive you for leaving … I … I … Damn it, I love you too much not to forgive you …"

Sudden silence.

I strain my ears –

A whisper, so faint, below the distant traffic and the crickets and the wind, but there.

"I love you too much not to forgive you, too, Max. Always have, always wi – mmph."

I jump out of my tree and race back to where the others are waiting, race back fast enough to be there when they walk towards us, holding hands – there when she grins with a happiness so potent she can't even try to hide it, laughs at the irony of it all, and declares, "This annoying bastard faked his own death to get me to confess to him, can you believe it?" – there when he shrugs and explains, "It wasn't like you'd get the nerve to say anything if I didn't let you think you'd never have another chance" – there when she lets go of his hand for a second, only to slug him playfully – there when he laughs, pushes her away, and says, with the air of a king returning to his kingdom, his wife, and his family after years away, "Let's go home."

**SOMETIMES, THE BEST PART OF A JOURNEY IS THE RETURN HOME. OTHER TIMES, IT'S THE WORST.**

The first thing we notice when we arrive back at the house is that the garbage man forgot to take our trash.

The second thing we notice is the empty pack of Bacon on the kitchen table.

The third thing we notice is an almost illegible note reading, "I can't live without her" taped to the fridge.

And the fourth thing we notice is an overwhelming smell of smoke.

We worriedly rush around the house, searching for signs of burning. We find none. Then, someone points outside and we all sprint that way.

It's impossible to miss.

The shed in the backyard has been reduced to a pile of ash.

Our worst fears have been confirmed.

Ella sinks to the ground and sobs, drowning in a sea of _no_ _this can't be happening_. Fang is the only thing holding Max from doing the same. I think I catch a tear trickling down his cheek. Angel isn't even trying to hide her tears, neither is Jeb. Liz is angrily muttering something about how the male lead can't die because fangirls can get really murderous when that happens.

I simply feel like someone stabbed me in the ego.

(No, not the heart. What do you think I am, a girl? A man's ego is the most important organ in his body, remember?)

I might be imagining it, but it sort-of seems like there's a black cloud of death, doom, and despair hanging over us, preventing us from being happy ever again.

Ella's cries of "No!" and "How could you?" and "Why?" and "I hope you rot in hell forever!" and "I hate you, you damn _bastard_!" aren't really helping.

I remember once, in music class, the teacher played a recording of a long piece based on Brazilian folk music. The first movement of the piece sounded like a funeral dirge, with the first flute and oboe players alternating in a melody that sounded like the scream of a beast being torn apart. The teacher later told us that those parts were supposed to represent women who would accompany funeral processions, singing for the person who had died.

Ella sounds the way the flute and oboe sounded, then – like the scream of a beast being torn apart.

"You're such an idiot!" she wails. "You're a complete imbecile! Only an idiot would try to kill himself for such a stupid reason! I'm not a good reason for you to kill yourself, damn it!"

"Oh, really?" says a voice from behind us.

**AND THERE WAS MUCH REJOICING.**

"Was it because you realized how much of an idiot you were being?"

"No."

"Because you wanted to live long and devour Bacon?"

"No again."

"Because you wanted to be able to listen to more perverted audio books?"

"_Nein_."

"Because you realized you had to live for the rest of the Flock?"

"Oh, God, no."

"Because you wanted to finish being Romeo in the play?"

"Ixnay on the laypay."

Everyone is gathered in the living room, attempting to guess Iggy's reason for flying away from the shed before it exploded. The bird-kid in question is perched on the sofa, grinning like a lunatic with his arm around his (equally overjoyed) girlfriend.

Finally, we give up.

"Are you sure you give up?" Iggy asks for the fourth time.

"Yes, we're sure!" we all yell.

"Okay, okay. I chickened out because I realized that … well … If I killed myself, Max would violently murder me."

Max grins. "Damn straight."

Everyone laughs.

"Wait a second," Ella exclaims. "How could she murder you if you were already dead?"

"Huh," her boyfriend says. "I never thought about that part."

"Iggy, you're an idiot."

"Yeah, I know."

"Also, I love you."

"Yeah, I know."

"… Wrong answer."

"Hey, don't look at me like that! … Love you, too."

And then, they're kissing.

Excuse me, not kissing – _making out_. As though they don't care that a whole roomful of people is watching them. As though they've been waiting their entire lives for this moment. As though they're the two happiest people on the planet.

It's kind-of gross, actually.

"And the fangirls go wild," Liz says, snapping a picture of the happy couple.

**FANGIRLS, YOU MAY NOW GO WILD.**


	25. Epilogue

**SOMETHING ROMEO-AND-JULIET-ISH**

**EPILOGUE: Something Romeo-and-Juliet-ish**

**RANDOM COMMENT OF THE APPROXIMATELY TWO DAYS IT HAS BEEN SINCE CHAPTER 24:  
><strong>

"**Do you guys need anything else?" "Um, a bigger mouth, so that I can eat this in one bite?" - my friend's mom and my other friend (the "this" is a packed cheeseburger)**

**WHERE LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME OCCURRED: The Avatar reference was the line break: "**THIS BREAK WAS STOLEN BY A MAGICAL FLYING BISON. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.**" The _Romeo and Juliet_ reference was this quote by Madame: "That's impossible, you tallow-faced baggage!" Juliet's father calls her a tallow-face and baggage at one point in the play.  
><strong>

**AWESOME PERSON WHO FOUND LAST CHAPTER'S REFERENCE TO SOMETHING AWESOME: _thosemockingjaybirds_ Who, unfortunately, didn't get a prize, since I haven't actually replied to my reviews yet ... Ahahaha ... xD**

**THIS CHAPTER'S SOMETHING AWESOME TO WHICH THERE IS A REFERENCE: The asdfmovie, the Redwall series, and Bakuman (a manga series.) (Three! A triple-whammy. xD) (No prizes for getting any of them, though ... Except my love? Only if you review this story, you already have that ... Hmm ... Okay, you guys can tell me what prizes you want. There we go. That's an idea.)  
><strong>

**ENJOY THE EPILOGUE OF AWESOME.  
><strong>

I would _like_ to be able to say that the Flock (and various hangers-on) spent the week after we defeated Madame basking in the glory of victory – sitting around on the couch, consuming vast amounts of junk food, and generally acting like a pack of lazy men going through mid-life crisis, only with less beer and more video games.

Well, okay, some of them did. With funds … ah … _liberated_ from Madame's headquarters, the Flock and Fang's Gang (which have decided to join into one big, mostly happy family, as their leaders are unwilling to go without seeing each other for more than a couple of hours at a time) bought a house large enough to accommodate everyone – complete with a swimming pool, a yard capable of serving as a football field, a home entertainment system, and several refrigerators. It's as close to paradise as these guys have ever gotten – or, well, it would be, if they could ignore the stone slab decorated with make-up, accessories, fashion magazines, and a certain meaningful hairdryer next to the oldest oak tree in the back yard.

Still, though, they're pretty much having the time of their lives – while Ella, Iggy, Gazzy, and I stay after school until nine o'clock at night, going over scene after scene after exhausting scene with barely a food break, no homework breaks, rare bathroom breaks, and a director who _just cannot seem to make up her mind._

It's no wonder the older Drama nerds call it "Hell Week." I mean, I didn't even have time to read or write any fan fiction! Fan fiction, a staple of every English-nerd-type-fangirl's life! _Why, cruel world …?_

… Well, then again, I suppose, maybe, things would have been just the slightest bit easier if the star actors hadn't insisted on re-writing the ending of the play …

…

Whatever. After Friday night, it will all be worth it, and I will finally be able to write down all of the great ideas my experiences of the past weeks have given me. Halleluiah.

**I LIKE TRAINS.**

"Curtain in two minutes, guys."

"Okay, got it."

…

"Oh, my gosh. This is finally happening."

"If anyone has any panic attacks, nervousness attacks, stage fright attacks, serial killer attacks, fangirl attacks, or attacks of any other nature, please get them over with now, because the Igster will not tolerate anything less than perfection in his play."

"If anyone's going to have an attack of stage fright, it'd be you, Iggy."

"What? Are you _doubting_ me?"

"After you almost committed suicide? Yes, I am."

"But I didn't actually _do_ it! And besides, it was for a good cause."

"… A good cause."

"Okay, maybe that isn't the best way of putting it …"

"No _shit_, Sherlock."

"Hey, could you guys _please_ stop arguing? We're on in one minute, and I'd rather the audience didn't hear mysterious bickering coming from behind the curtain."

…

"Thank you."

…

"Okay, now I really _am_ starting to get nervous."

"It's okay, you'll be fine."

"Because I'm an amazing, clever, hot, sexy hunk of man?"

"No – because I'll _kill_ you if you aren't."

"And kill means kiss, right?"

"I'm thinking more along the lines of _castrate_."

"_Shut up!_ Both of you will be perfectly fine! You're great actors, and besides, you practically lived this play!"

…

"I love you, 'kay, Iggy?"

…

"Well, I totally didn't see that one coming. It was nice, though. Wet, and not enough tongue for my taste, but ni – _ow!_"

…

"Three …"

"Two …"

"One …"

"Hello, everyone, and welcome to tonight's performance of Something Romeo-and-Juliet-ish, put on by the Mesa High Drama Club. I'm Erica Jasani, the director of the club, here to go through a couple of technicalities with you, our esteemed (and, in a few cases, non-esteemed) guests. First, there kids worked really hard on this play, so please have a little respect and silence all cell phones, beepers, loud snacks, small children – basically, anything that might make noise during the performance. Second, emergency exits are there, there, up there, and two in the back. Yes, two. The light is out on one because of an accident with a fake unicorn and a jar of peanut butter. Don't ask, please. And third, flash photography, video photography, pornography, and any other type of photography I may have missed is strongly discouraged, as it will distract the performers. I mean, if you want them to screw up and forget their lines because a flash bulb went off in their faces, it's your loss. So, without any further ado … Enjoy the show!"

"_**Two households, both alike in dignity,  
>In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,<br>From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,  
>Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.<br>From forth the fatal loins of these two foes  
>A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;<br>Whose misadventured piteous overthrows  
>Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.<br>The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,  
>And the continuance of their parents' rage,<br>Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,  
>Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;<br>The which if you with patient ears attend,  
>What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."<strong>_

Of course, the play goes perfectly.

The actors say their parts with such assurance, it seems as though they were born to play them. They are guided, not by fate, but by something much more terrifying: the promise of an ass-kicking from the two stars if they screw up. (I suppose messing up in front of a packed auditorium would be pretty embarrassing, as well, and I suppose putting on a play is no fun if you don't know your lines, but the ass-kicking threat is definitely the determining factor. Ella is reminiscent of a mother bear with cubs when she's mad.)

The members of the audience seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves, too. At least, they laugh and cry, _aww_ and sigh at the right times. During intermission, I sneak out of backstage to go to the bathroom, and overhear a couple of old ladies discussing our performance so far.

"That Romeo and his Juliet make such a cute couple," one of them says.

"I _know_," the other replies. "I wonder if they're together in real life."

_You don't know the half of it_, I think, smiling to myself.

And then, the play arrives at the final scene, the most crucial moment of our performance. The actors have been modifying the Shakespearian language of the original play all along to make it easier to understand, and that went over well with the audience, but this is the real test: will they accept our alternate ending?

_Juliet lies on her tomb, her hands folded demurely upon her lap, lips curled upward slightly in a Mona Lisa smile. She doesn't seem dead so much as merely asleep … Waiting for her prince to come and awaken her from dreams of a dull, gray world not nearly as exciting as real life._

_Romeo rushes in, tired and bloody from his encounter with Paris. He falls at Juliet's graveside as though falling into his own._

"_Juliet, my sweet Juliet," he whispers, letting a shaking hand caress her cold cheek. "The eeriness of this tomb does nothing to detract from your beauty. Your face in death bears the same rosy color it bore in life, the same expression, almost the same warmth … But death, as all devils, is deceiving. You are gone, and soon, I will join you … My body will become ashes – Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, body crumbling amid the worms that are now your chambermaids …"_

_He sighs and lets his head drop onto her chest. "And yet, I do not want to leave. I like my life – joking with Benvolio and Mercutio, playing pranks on our uptight relatives, going to parties, dancing with beautiful girls – but none so beautiful as you. I wish I could have gotten to know you more, Juliet. I love you, but I barely even know who you are … I wish I could learn … Perhaps I will meet you, and I can learn there, but I would rather stay here. I almost feel as though you would be disappointed in me for dying to meet you, for surrendering to join your fate … To join any fate, really, to let my life be dictated by something else … Perhaps I won't die … But I cannot live without you … Oh, Juliet, I'm so confused!"_

"_Could you please take your angst somewhere else?" Juliet asks in irritation, opening a tired eyelid. "I was having a rather nice dream, but it was rather difficult with you going on and on. God, why did I ever marry someone this long wind –"_

_In an amusing twist of irony, Juliet is unable to finish the word "winded" as her wind is momentarily taken from her by a bone-crushing hug._

"_Juliet!" he crows, as though everything is all right in the world – which, for him, it is. "You are alive!"_

"_Well, of course I am alive, you buffoon," she replies. "Did you fail to receive the message?"_

"_What message?"_

"_The one Friar Lawrence sent for you, describing how I was to take a drug that would cause me to appear as if dead for seventy-two hours and how you were to come for me and whisk me off to Mantua, with not a soul here the wiser."_

"_I received no such message."_

"_Of course you did not. Now kiss me, tell me you love me, and whisk me off to Mantua. This tombstone is becoming seriously unpleasant to my backside."_

_Romeo is about to do just that when a voice from the entrance to the crypt says, "Well, the two of you may be happy in Mantua, but I believe you would be happier still here in Verona."_

_The young lovers (regretfully) break apart and are shocked to see the Prince striding in, a solemn expression on his face and a disheveled appearance about his person, as though he just woke up._

"_Sir!" Romeo stands abruptly and bows. "What are you doing here? If I may ask," he adds hastily for fear of sounding rude._

"_I was informed that Paris had perished on the steps of this crypt by the hand of a certain banished young man," the Prince explains._

_Romeo attempts to make himself disappear, preferably without leaving any traces of himself in the Prince's memory._

_The Prince finds this infinitely amusing._

_Juliet takes his amusement as malevolence, and acts accordingly, sitting up and bowing her head to him in an act of complete submission. (Romeo is slightly turned on by the image.) "Please, sir," she pleads, "revoke his banishment. Romeo regrets what he did, and is willing to do anything to gain your forgiveness … Right, Romeo?"_

"_Er … Yes, right," Romeo agrees._

_The Prince laughs. "I was about to suggest that myself, my dear girl."_

_She brightens. "Really?"_

_He nods. "Really. I will grant Romeo freedom, but only if the two of you are able to put an end to the feud between your families."_

_The two lovers look at each other incredulously, then back at the Prince. "Have you _seen_ our families recently?" Romeo asks._

"_Yes, I have," the Prince replies. "I have seen that both families are waiting for the other to initiate a peace treaty. I was not eavesdropping on the two of you for long, but I heard enough to be sure that you are capable of initiating that peace treaty."_

_Juliet jumps off of her tombstone and takes Romeo's hand. She grins at him, and he wonders if he has ever seen a sight more beautiful in his life. He smiles back, and she wonders the same thing._

"_Challenge accepted," she says. _

**HATERS GONNA HATE, POTATOES GONNA POTATE, TOMATOES GONNA TOMATE, BREAKS GONNA BREKATE.**

I don't think I need to dictate the rest of the play to you, as I'm sure you can guess it for yourself: Romeo and Juliet put their families into a state of serious consternation, but then, through amazing powers of convincing (and a few well-placed threats), they manage to negotiate a peace treaty, and everybody lives happily ever after.

The audience gives us a standing ovation.

I can't help feeling particularly proud as I gaze out from backstage at the hundreds of people on their feet – _for us_ – clapping so loud and so long, their hands will ache later – _for us_ – cheering at the tops of their lungs – _for us._

I can't for the life of me figure out why ... Maybe it's because I wrote the alternative ending to the script ... Nah, that's not it.

It must be because, without me, the two main actors never would have been able to act out their parts as convincingly as they did.

Oh, and one particularly awesome special effect never would have been possible.

The audience is bemused as the opening chords of _American Idiot_ play through the auditorium's speakers, but the actors onstage and the tech crew members joining them are anything but.

"_Don't wanna be a Venetian idiot,_

_Don't want a city controlled by the rivalries!_

_And can you hear the sounds of bickering?_

_The Montagues and Capulets at it again._

_Isn't this a stupid kind of tension,_

_All throughout the stubborn city,_

_Where everything is never okay?_

_Fighting and arguing dreams of tomorrow_

_We're not the ones who're meant to follow_

_And that's enough to fall in love._"

I don't think I've ever seen so many beaming faces in one place before.

… Or, as the epic instrumental kicks into gear, so many air guitar solos …

Then, the song reaches the verse right after the instrumental – the verse that Iggy and Ella sing without any accompaniment from other singers or instruments.

They pause for effect, about to deliver the last line in the verse, but are rudely interrupted.

_FAAAAAAAAAART.  
><em>

**IN WHICH MANY, MANY, _MANY_ PEOPLE ATTEMPTED TO MURDER A CERTAIN MUTANT WE ALL KNOW AND SMELL.**

**(A/N: At this point, there is a POV switch to that same mutant we all know and smell.)**

After a show, whether it be a musical, a play, or something Romeo-and-Juliet-ish, a strange hybrid is born of the parents Drama and Tchie, something unexplainable to parents and members of a non-Dramatically-involved clan: the cast party.

These phenomena have several stages, as observed by yours truly during the first one I attended (i.e. the one on opening night.) The stages are as follows:

1.) Where is everybody? Considering how big the cast and crew are, there should be more than five of us …

2.) The People begin to trickle in. "Perhaps, in a couple billion years, there'll be a hundred of us," some clever deviant remarks.

3.) The Food arrives. It is Glorious Food worthy of Blessings from the Bacon God Himself (and, no, that' snot just because we're starving. It's only _partly_ because we're starving.)

4.) The Lucky Folks who arrived before the Food pig out on aforementioned Food.

5.) The People come in packs. The place might not be able to hold all of them. This might prove to be an issue in the long run, but everyone is too high off of his or her own Awesomeness to care.

6.) Music decides to introduce itself, seemingly out of nowhere but actually out of speakers in an unknown location. Everyone screams, even if they hate or don't know the song, because _holy fucking shit,_ a song is playing, and _holy mother of J. K. Rowling_ is it LOUD.

7.) A Dance Floor is established. There is Moshing, First Pumping, Jumping Up and Down like a Hyper Bunny Rabbit, and Circling Around the Few Actually Good Dancers and Clapping as they Bust moves, and other less appropriate activities.

8.) Those Who Don't Comprehend the Host's Music Choices leave aforementioned Dance Floor for quieter pastures.

That's where our story ends, because I, myself, am a member of that last group – as are all of the People who (Probably) Forgave Me for my Earlier Mishap, also know as my family and close friends.

And Iris.

Who I would like to assign to neither category, but to a special category all her own …

But, as she's been ignoring me ever since the battle, I don't think that seems likely.

Dang.

Anyway, back to where I am now. Being a complete nerd (excuse me, _intellectual badass_), Liz brought a deck of cards with her, enabling us to engage in a highly competitive game of Egyptian Ratscrew. Egyptian Ratscrew, if you aren't aware, is a very confusing and very violent card game involving an inhuman amount of slapping – seriously, I think my hand will _never be the same_ – that, oddly enough, involves neither Egyptians nor ratscrews. (What is a ratscrew, anyway? A rat that screws? A screw that is ratty?)

The only thing more amusing than the card game itself is the conversation that takes place during its course:

"I still can't believe that lady at Rainbow Scoops yesterday gave me only one scoop when I paid for two."

"It might have something to do with the perverted comment you made about how the 'Donut Hole' ice cream and the 'Licorice Stick' ice cream were right next to each other. It's just a guess, though."

"Hmm, you could be right … Hey, that lap of yours looks really comfortable, mind if I sit on it?"

"No, I guess no – OW! YOU'RE _HEAVY_! GET OFF!"

"If you want me off, you'll have to push me o – _mmph_."

"Thank you."

"Hey, Fang, is that brownie any good?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Mind if I have a taste?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Hey, that _is_ good! I've got to go get one later … Oh, you've got some on your chin, let me wipe it off for yo – _mmph_."

"Star, there is _no way in hell_ your cookie tastes better than mine!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really!"

"Guys, don't bicker. We're celebrating a play-well-performed."

"We're not bickering; we're _debating_."

"I hate to break this to you, but you two aren't Guosim shrews."

"NOOO! KATE, HOW COULD YOU? YOU RUINED MY LI –_ mmph._"

"Hey, Maya?"

"Yeah?"

"About how I treated you, you know, before … I'm really … really …"

"Really what?"

"Really s … so … sorry!"

"SOMEONE, GRAB A CAMERA! MAX APOLOGIZED! THIS MOMENT SHOULD BE PRESERVED FOR ALL OF ETERNITY!"

"Yes, sir!"

There's a distinct click as Liz snaps a picture of Max's tomato-colored face, and everyone laughs. A slightly awkward silence follows.

"What would Nudge say if she was here?" Angel wonders aloud.

"It's weird, but I really miss her constant chattering," I say.

"The house is going to be so quiet without her," Iggy adds.

There's a soft sound not unlike that of a balloon deflating. I turn to see tears silently dripping down Max's face. The emotional brick wall lets her fall across his chest and sob quietly into his shoulder.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "I'm here."

There is another awkward silence as the rest of us look away.

"AWKWARD SILENCE! A NEW HETALIA CHARACTER IS BORN!" Liz shouts.

Everyone laughs again, and several new conversations initiate.

"Hey, Craig, I never found out - what _is_ your special power, anyway?"

"I make people go huh!"

"… Huh?"

"When he gets close to someone, he can screw up that person's thinking momentarily, causing amnesia, confusion, all that good stuff."

"Ohhh."

"OH GUYS I'VE GOT A SERIOUS ISSUE FOR US TO DEBATE! Could James Bond beat Jason Borne in a duel?"

"Dunno. The Almighty Bacon God could beat both of them, though."

"And Chuck Norris would beat all three of them to a pulp."

"Indeed."

"Hey, you said 'indeed' in a British accent! BRO-ELBOW!"

"… What?"

"It's like a bro-fist, only with your elbow."

"Oh, okay. BRO-ELBOW!"

Grinning at all of the completely random (and completely epic) things people are saying, I finish the last of my brownie. Iris is sitting by herself on the floor near a window, looking breathtakingly beautiful in a flowing, lavender silk dress with her chestnut hair in a braid down her back. The faint rays of moonlight coming in through the window make a silver crown on her head. I wish I could take a picture of her to treasure it forever, but that would seem creepy, and any chances I had with her would go _poof_.

Suddenly, without realizing it, I'm standing right in front of her. I know this is the perfect opportunity to ask her out, but for some reason, I'm unable to say anything.

"Gazzy? What is it?" she asks.

"Um … I just wanted to know …" I mumble, "if you … uh … wanted … to go outside," I finish quickly. "The stars are coming out and it's really pretty, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," she agrees. "Let's see if we can get out onto the roof to watch it from there."

We don't manage to find a good place to scale the roof, but we _do_ locate a decent balcony on the second floor of the house and drag a pair of chairs outside onto it.

The stars are winking into being one by one, each seeming to wave at me, to say, "Good luck, this is your moment." They seem so close, but in reality are so far away … I wish I could reach out and pluck one out of the sky, wrap it up and give it to Iris, a shining gift for a shining girl …

A slight breeze whispers through the cool summer night, but I don't feel it, because I'm out here with her. It's weird, how hyper-aware of her I am - as though if she were to move even the slightest muscle, I would feel it.

"Thanks," Iris says suddenly.

"For what?" I ask. If anyone should be thanking here, it's me.

"For … I dunno how to say this … For not giving up," she explains. "I was so scared that you'd surrender to Madame, but you never did. You were determined, and you found a way in to her headquarters - I never could've done that - and you weren't scared of her and … well … Your courage gave me courage, I guess. So yeah. Thank you."

"Um, you're welcome," I reply, trying not too blush too much or reveal to her how much her gratitude means to me.

I think I see her smile in the semi-darkness.

_Someday, she won't just let you finish - she'll say yes_, Iggy's voice says in my head.

"Hey, Iris?"

"Yeah?"

"Wanna go see a movie with me some time?"

_Deep breaths deep breaths deep breaths hope she can't hear my heart pounding -_

"Sure, I'd love to."

_BOOM!_

I'm debating whether or not to do a victory dance when she takes my hand. Hers is hot and a bit sweaty, but it's soft and sweet and feels as though it _belongs_ in mine.

"I'm glad," I whisper.

I feel myself moving in … _closer closer closer …_

"Oh, so _this_ is where you two got off to!" says a voice from inside the house.

It's my fellow pyromaniac, of course, with his girlfriend in tow.

"You, my friend, are a master cock-block," I inform him.

He swivels his head around, what would be looking around for someone capable of looking. "I don't see it."

"Funny," I tell him. "Real funny."

"I think we should leave," Ella says.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," I reply.

Before Ella can come back with, "You're welcome, Sergeant Sarcasm," we hear a certain song playing from inside:

_Never gonna give you up  
>Never gonna let you down<br>Never gonna run around and desert you  
>Never gonna make you cry<br>Never gonna say goodbye  
>Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you<em>

The four of us groan in unison. "Of all the places to be rick-rolled …"

But there are pros to being rick-rolled, I suppose - or, at least, there are, if you happen to be Iggy.

He bows to Ella and offers his hand to her (like a proper gentleman.) "May I have the pleasure of this dance?"

"Fuck no," she jokes.

He pouts.

She smiles. "Haha, I was just pulling your leg. Now get over here, Suicide-boy, and let me put my hands around your waist."

It isn't long before I get up the courage to ask Iris the same thing, and before I know it, I'm twirling around to the timeless classic, _Never Gonna Give You Up._

All things considered, it isn't a bad way to end a hectic couple of months.

…

And then, I hear a click and see - or, more accurately, am blinded by - a flash.

"Liz, what are you doing?"

"Um … Stalking you? Being a paparazzi? Gathering material for future fan fictions? Take your pick."

"How about exploding?"

"I don't think I was doing that …"

"You will be, if you don't stop being a fifth wheel."

"… Oh. Okay. I see when I'm not wanted."

"It's not _you_ we don't want - just your camera."

"But my camera is a part of me!"

"You'll have to cut it out, then."

… And on and on and on until we couldn't even remember what we had first started talking about, just that we were talking and that we had accomplished something amazing and life was really, really good.

Boom.

**THE END.**

**It's over. Finally.**

**I feel like a part of my life is ending!**

**Well, not really, since I'm still going to write fan fiction. Not for Maximum Ride, though. Yes, that means no sequels. I'm sorry guys - the MR fandom just isn't what it used to be, what with James Patterson ruining his own series.**

**If you want to stick around and continue reading my fan fictions, though, go ahead - I _am_ planning two multi-chapter fics at the moment (one for Hetalia and one for Avatar: The Last Airbender.)**

**That reminds me: I have to say some thank-you's. So, here goes: THANK YOOOUUUU! Danke, grazie, gracias, spasibo, xiexie, arigato. And that's every language I know how to say thank you in, so you'll have to make do with it. Thanks to all of my lovely reviewers (I have almost 300 reviews on this story, can you believe it?) - you guys never cease to make me smile and inspire me to keep writing.**

**I'm sad to end this story after writing it for the past year, but I really enjoyed writing it and I'm proud of myself for actually finishing. xD**

**I'll miss you guys! PM me any time, even if it's just to curse at me for not writing MR fics anymore.**

**One last review? Please? I'd love to know what you guys thought of my ending. :)**

**BOOM.**


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